The trek through the eastern jungle was a sweaty, uphill slog — too much heat, too much bickering, and way too many bugs. As the ground climbed higher, so did their bad luck. Another brigade of beetles, just two this time, but slightly bigger than the last. And these weren’t the same kind. A different breed entirely, with giant horns coming out of their face.

  For Russell, Shoji, and Conrad, taking them down had been less of a strategy and more of a prison riot — three idiots swinging, flinging, and howling like the world’s most desperate Black Friday shoppers fighting over a half-price television. Messy, reckless, stupid. But in the end, the bugs were dead, and they were still standing.

  And this meant one thing for all three of the gut-soaked castaways — they were all nearing their next level. Russell more than the others.

  Arms covered in green gunk, he flicked them as dry as they’d get before checking his device. The progress bar was real-damn full, but just shy of that BA-DING! One more kill, one more dead bug, and he’d level up. Another point to spend, another skill to unlock.

  “How long do these events last?” he asked as they trudged through the thick vegetation, the incline making every step worse.

  “Sunset,” Shoji said, picking at his banana hammock with zero shame. The little bastard had tucked his sling down the front, giving himself an impressive-looking package, but also turning his underwear into a makeshift thong. Clearly, it was a trade-off he was willing to live with — he’d been walking like that for most of the hike.

  “The wrist-thingy’ll say something when it’s over,” Conrad disputed.

  Russell unscrewed Tumzy’s beret, taking a long sip. Like clockwork, the speaker came to life and Tumzy’s silly voice echoed through the jungle.

  “Make cold belly, feel better, boy!”

  Conrad turned and spit. “Boy,” he repeated, dragging out the word with a demeaning little grin.

  Russell snorted, passed Tumzy to Shoji. Conrad hadn’t earned water privileges yet. Maybe he never would. Ever since the tidal pools, things had shifted. The event had forced them into some sort of bullshit brothers-in-arms. An us vs. the island sort of deal. But Conrad, for all his talent at beating beetle ass, he still had to prove he was worth a damn in the long-term.

  Russell eyed his progress bar again, dark thoughts gnawing at the edges of his brain. He was an ass-hair away from Level 4. If he tackled Conrad and got a few good shots in, how much BADASS would that net him?

  No. Better not.

  “How big do these bugs get, you think?” he asked instead.

  Conrad scoffed. “You ask a lot of goddamn questions. What, you think we got a user manual or something, dawg? The only thing we know is the same thing you know — the dickhead on the watch pops in every now and then to let us know how we’re getting fucked next.”

  Russell smirked. “Yeah? Well, here’s a question for you. How many levels you get back at the tidal pools? Smacking the shit out of a pinball machine and jerking it to the GILF?”

  Conrad stopped in his tracks. Just stopped. He locked eyes with Russell like it was an invitation to throw hands. And Russell, feeling that pull — just one good punch away from leveling up — was half a second from accepting.

  Then Shoji piped up.

  “Plane,” he said, dashing forward, Tumzy clutched tight.

  Up ahead, the jungle quit climbing and flattened into a clearing. Whatever fight was brewing died right there. The second Russell saw it, everything else went to the back burner.

  “Holy hell,” he muttered, stepping over twisted metal, ducking under shredded debris. His head tilted back, taking in the scale of it. “How the fuck did you guys survive this?”

  Ripped right through the canopy, wedged between two gnarled branches of an ancient tree, was what used to be a private jet. Now, it was just a carcass.

  Conrad kicked an empty suitcase out of his way. “By being badasses. Least, that’s how I did it.”

  Russell had to admit, it took a special kind of bastard to live through something like this. Or a real lucky one. The jet had been chewed up and spit out out of the sky. Windows blown out, fuselage peeled back like a sardine can, one wing just gone. And that wasn’t the only thing missing.

  “Where’s the back half?” Russell asked, stepping around a suitcase still buckled shut. “Thing’s literally broke in two.”

  “Fuck if I know,” Conrad said. “Broke apart in the sky. Back half kept flying, god knows where. Us in the front, we just held on, screamin’ and shit, until…”

  “Bang,” Shoji said, voice far away, like he was still strapped in, still hearing the scream of metal before everything went black. He hugged Tumzy tight, like the little panda might keep him from going under.

  Conrad didn’t bother looking up. Didn’t need to. Instead, he swaggered over to three mounds of dirt, the kind raised just enough to let you know something was beneath them. Each had its own makeshift cross — mangled metal lashed together with luggage handles, the best someone could do with what they had. Mari, probably.

  Russell nodded toward the mounds. “Those your dead folks?”

  Conrad snorted. “Pilot, co-pilot, and some German broad. Hilde, I think. Sexy as hell.” He spit. “When she still had arms.” He mulled that over, then turned to Russell.

  “When you woke up on the beach, all dressed up in your clown pants, you already had a device on you, right?”

  Russell nodded. “Someone strapped it on while I was out.”

  “Same,” Conrad said, glancing at his wrist like it was a prison shackle with one of those barbells at the end. “Those of us still breathing, we came to after the crash. No clue how long we were out. But if you was strapped with one of these, that meant you were still alive.”

  Russell clicked his cheek. “Lucky us.”

  Shoji flicked at his own device, muttering, “No respect.”

  The three men sat with it for a second. Their curse of life.

  Russell frowned. “I don’t think I’m getting the full picture. You said Mari went looking for others?”

  Conrad spit again, shaking his head. “You said it yourself, dawg. Half the plane’s missing. Gone who-the-fuck-knows where. We counted heads — three people were in the back when we split. Mari figured she’d load up on supplies here, then go find ‘em.” He smirked, shaking his head. “Stupid-ass idea.”

  Like the whole topic was getting a little too close for comfort, Conrad shoved his hands around his mouth and hollered into the wreckage.

  “Mari! You fucking traitor, where you at?”

  Russell threw out a hand. “Dude. The bugs. Chill.”

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  Conrad sneered, spit again. “If she was here, she ain’t anymore. Guess you’ll have to fix your imaginary boat all by your lonesome.” He chuckled.

  Russell looked around, trying to make this trip worth something. The wreck had bled its guts across the clearing — debris, luggage, metal, plastic, all the shit a plane coughs up when it gets torn in two.

  “We can probably scavenge some gear from the luggage,” Russell said, nodding at a pile of busted hard-shells.

  Conrad scoffed and sauntered over to Shoji. “You think we’re stupid?” He spread his arms wide, like he was walking the runway of the greasiest, fuckboy fashion show. “How you think I got my threads back? We done all that.”

  Then, quick as a snake, Conrad snatched Tumzy out of Shoji’s hands and threw back a greedy gulp.

  “Drinking, drinking! Dry man drinking!”

  Russell and Shoji watched in silence, tight-lipped, shoulders stiff. Russell’s grip found his axe handle. His eyes tracked Tumzy, or more importantly, what was left inside her.

  Drinking, drinking…

  Real soon, water was gonna be a problem again. And he wasn’t sure Conrad had ever stopped being one.

  But then, in an instant, the “Conrad problem” seemed rather small.

  “Smell,” Shoji said, voice tight.

  Russell barely had time to register the shift in tone before his nose caught it, too. A heavy, acrid stench thick in the air, cutting through the humidity like a truck stop bathroom left to bake in the sun.

  Then came the sounds. First, a whisper, way off, but moving fast. Then more — branches cracking, bamboo splitting, the jungle shifting like something big was shaking itself loose. Up ahead, the hills moved.

  Russell’s stomach dropped. Not hills.

  Shield-shaped bodies, brown and gleaming, some the size of bulls, some the size of buses. Dozens of them.

  “Now that’s some Jurassic Park shit,” Russell muttered, frozen in awe.

  The mob of stinkbugs were descending in force, a mudslide of clicking mandibles and churning legs.

  And they were coming fast.

  Russell learned real quick that climbing a tree was a hell of a lot easier when you weren’t wearing purple mascot leggings. And if he was being honest, Conrad screaming insults up his ass didn’t hurt either.

  “Move your fat ass!” Conrad barked, clawing at the branches just as fast as Russell let them go. “Jesus Christ, faster!”

  “I’m going, I’m going!” Russell shot back, but it was hard to feel like he was moving fast enough as the horde of bugs stampeded closer and closer.

  “Comeoncomeoncomeon!” Shoji screeched from above them. The man moved up the tree like a monkey on cocaine, some half-naked Tarzan in a thong that left nothing to the imagination. Russell had the misfortune of a perfect view of those oiled-up, glistening cheeks. It was a bad time for self-reflection, but he had to admit, he should’ve been better at this survival shit by now. Yet again, something the boy scouts definitely would have helped with.

  “Fuck!” Russell screamed, reflecting on his life failures, but still climbing as fast as he could.

  Shoji was already scrambling into the busted fuselage, and in a better world, he might’ve thrown Russell a hand, pulled him up. Instead, he let out a startled yelp.

  “Ah! Ma—!” Whatever came next out of Shoji’s mouth got swallowed by the rising rumble of the stinkbug stampede.

  Russell risked a look. The tree, old and twisted, shuddered beneath him like an ancient ent rising from its slumber. The fuselage rocked, barely clinging to the forked branches holding it airborne. Below, the stinkbugs pushed through the jungle, big, glistening bastards slathered in filth. They flooded through the clearing like a tsunami of shit. The stench hit Russell like a fist — every grease trap, every day-three convention-goer, every forgotten cum sock, all bottled up and left to rot.

  And it was coming for them.

  “Shit,” Conrad groaned as the vibrations knocked him loose. He slid, arms flailing, then snagged a branch at the last second, locking one arm around it. The other stayed clamped around Tumzy’s lanyard like she was a goddamn life raft. Russell knew the truth — Conrad didn’t give a shit about Tumzy. He gave a shit about the water.

  “Can’t hold on, yo!” Conrad yelped, voice going high, his shoulders sagging under the strain.

  “Then fucking climb!” Russell snapped.

  He was about to haul himself up another branch when he felt it — the moment the island decided to fuck them over even harder.

  The ground split open like the earth itself had a bad case of the shits, and out came more stinkbugs, erupting in a geyser of filth. The ones already stampeding — those big, armored tanks — trampled over each other, a writhing mess of twitching legs and glistening shells. But it was the smaller ones shooting out of the hole that had Russell freaked. Because those fuckers? They had wings.

  Apparently, stinkbugs could fly. But they were kind of shit at it.

  The bugs shot out of the hole like a burst sewer pipe, flapping greasy wings with no target, no direction. One veered left, clipped a tree trunk, and exploded in a wet, rancid pop. Another slammed into a branch, burst like a water balloon, and sent a rain of sticky sludge showering down over the swarm. Two of the dumb-fucks flew right into each other and created a firework of filth. Russell had seen a lot of messed-up things in his life, but he’d never seen bugs so goddamn bad at being bugs. And in their stupidity, he saw hope.

  “What the fuck is going on?!” Conrad shrieked, legs swinging up, trying to wrap around the branch, Tumzy still locked in his grip like a goddamn teddy bear. “These things are suicidal!”

  “Less talking, more climbing!” Russell barked, hauling himself up another branch.

  Below them, the clearing where they’d been arguing was gone, swallowed by the widening hole. Luggage, wreckage, the graves of the pilots and the armless German — all of it tumbled into the abyss. The stinkbugs kept coming, pouring out in waves, the ground breaking apart beneath them. The trees weren’t just shaking now. They were falling.

  And Russell had a sinking feeling they weren’t climbing nearly fast enough.

  Then he heard it.

  The ancient tree groaned, deep and pissed off. Wood cracked, metal shrieked, all of it coming together in a symphony of you’re fucked as the massive trunk leaned, its roots peeling away from the crumbling ground. Russell tightened his grip, trying to find four points of contact. He let go of one, he’d be free-falling straight into the pit of writhing nightmare fuel below.

  For a second — just a flicker — he was back on the yacht. The storm raging, Buzz hollering, his own stupid furry mascot hands barely holding onto the mast as the deck pitched over black, violent water. But this wasn’t water. No waves. Only dirt, bugs the size of trucks, and the unending smell of ass.

  The tree slammed into another with a colossal THUD that rattled Russell’s teeth. He heard Shoji somewhere up in the fuselage, cursing whatever gods were dumb enough to be watching this. The metal shell of the jet rocked hard, then settled.

  “This is all your fucking fault!” Conrad wailed, dangling over the bug blender below, legs kicking like a kid who never figured out the jungle gym. “I shoulda stayed on the beach!”

  “Dude! Hold tight!” Russell barked, lowering himself just enough to reach out. “Give me your hand!”

  “How, dumbass?!” Conrad snapped, wild-eyed. And yeah, a fair question. Between gripping the tree and holding onto Tumzy’s lanyard, Conrad didn’t exactly have a spare hand to offer.

  Russell’s stomach clenched. He knew what had to happen. And goddamn, he hated it.

  “Let go of her,” Russell said, voice flat, steady.

  Conrad hesitated, like he was waiting for Russell to say just kidding, but Russell didn’t. He just stared, jaw clenched, waiting. Conrad swallowed hard, then, with a grimace, loosened his grip.

  Tumzy tum-tum-tumbled. She bounced off the slick shell of a stinkbug, skipped once like a goddamn skipping stone, then disappeared into the seething pit below. Gone.

  Russell shut his eyes for half a second. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. It wasn’t much of a funeral, but it’d have to do.

  Conrad’s hand shot up and Russell grabbed it.

  “Thank Christ you’re light,” Russell grunted, hauling Conrad up, dragging him into the safety of a bundle of branches.

  “Thank Christ you ain’t weak,” Conrad spat, eyeing Russell with something that just might’ve been respect. They shared a look, a rare moment of understanding between two guys who’d just pulled each other out of the shitter. But the universe, being the unrelenting asshole that it was, wasn’t about to let them have that moment.

  One of the foul flying dumbasses veered off course, smashed dead into the tree, and detonated like a goddamn stink grenade.

  The explosion hit Conrad full force. He took the blast like a man receiving the worst baptism in history, soaked head to toe in a fresh coat of stinkbug innards. Russell got splashed too, sure, but Conrad got baptized.

  The smell hit fast. A chemical-grade stench, thick and rotten, like deep-fried shit.

  Conrad threw up. On Russell. And then Russell returned the favor.

  The two of them hung there, covered in puke and stinkbug slime, with the chaos still raging around them. Neither spoke. No words needed, except for five, skillfully chosen.

  “I fucking hate this place,” Conrad said.

  Shoji hauled Russell up first, then Conrad, and the two shit-smelling, slime-covered bastards rolled into what was left of the plane. For Conrad and Shoji, it was a homecoming, where Level 1 began. But for Russell, it was something else — an inside look at their past lives. And even with everything smashed, wrecked, and caked in blood, one thing was clear: Shoji and Conrad, Mari and the others, they’d had money behind their venture. Just like Russell. But this wasn’t over-the-top, neon purple Spazz money. This was something different.

  The private jet, or what remained of it, was a ruin draped in luxury. The leather seats were the kind that could cradle a 400-pound man and a lap dancer without either breaking a sweat. Most of them had blood on them now, sure, but you could tell — whoever had been flying high in this thing had been living large before gravity had other ideas.

  Russell, Shoji, and Conrad peered out through what used to be windows, their view split between a massive pit yawning open beneath them and a floor jungle floor that was flooded with man-eating bugs. The good news was, the tree was secure, the fuselage, too. The bad news? Well, they were stuck up in it with nowhere to run.

  Then — THWACK.

  A flying stinkbug, fat and drunk on death, smacked into the fuselage. It detonated on impact, bug guts spraying through the shattered windows like some fucked-up water park feature. All three of the castaways took it to the face, as if it were by grand design.

  Shoji gagged. “Maji ka yo!” he yelled, pawing at his face, scraping the misfortune away.

  Russell wasn’t far behind him, spitting and cursing. Conrad simply started punching the plane’s hull, busting his knuckles to expel his overflowing anger.

  “Is there—” Russell started, voice rising with pure existential frustration, “is there nowhere sacred where we don’t get covered in shit-goo?”

  Shoji lost the fight against his stomach. He bent over and let loose in the aisle. But as he spilled his guts, he still managed to point toward the back of the plane, trying to communicate something between retches. Russell wiped bug juice from his eyes, turned, and saw her.

  “Conrad, I thought you buried all the dead folks,” he said.

  “The fuck you talking about?” Conrad shot back. “We did, dawg.”

  Russell pointed toward the front of the plane. “Then who’s she?”

  They turned as one. A woman slumped in one of the big leather seats, her head down, long, curly black hair spilling forward. Russell felt something stir in his gut. Recognition. The others felt it, too.

  They moved in slow, stepping through the debris — scattered luggage, a massive black trunk, another beverage cart. But also, lying there in the aisle, a trio of dildos, tossed around like loose peanuts. Russell blinked at them, but he didn’t have time for it.

  When they were standing over her, they didn’t need to see her face to know.

  Conrad clicked his cheek. “Oh, Mari, baby,” he said, shaking his head like he was laying down a bad poker hand.

  Shoji didn’t say a word. He just put a hand on Mari’s shoulder, a touch that felt more like a goodbye than anything else.

  “The hell happened?” Russell asked.

  No blood, no wounds, nothing obvious. Just her slumped there, head bowed, hair hanging over her face. His gut twisted, curiosity getting the better of him. As respectfully as he could, he reached out, brushed a strand of hair aside — then yanked his hand back at what he saw.

  “The hell?”

  Something wasn’t right. He nudged the butt of his axe under her chin and tipped her face up. The second her face rolled into view, all three of them flinched.

  Mari was Mari — except she wasn’t. Her face had taken a detour through a back-alley plastic surgeon. Swollen, bloated, her lips pumped to reality TV proportions. Stretched tight and glossy like she’d been stung by a nest of bees — or asked a cosmetic surgeon for the just fuck me up, fam special.

  Conrad took a step back, head cocked. “When the fuck did she get a lip job?”

  Before anyone could answer, Mari’s eyes shot open.

  Conrad and Shoji scrambled backward, making noises not fit for grown men, but Russell was too close.

  Her hand — bloated and swollen like her face — snapped around his arm, her grip tight.

  All four of them screamed, the kind of raw, stupid terror reserved for when something dead decides it ain’t dead after all.

  Mari’s lips barely moved when she spoke, and her words were on the brink of gibberish.

  “Youphuckinidiotas!” she spat. “Wehaphagetoutophere!”