The galley was tilted damn near 45 degrees, but Shoji didn’t seem to mind. He sat at the galley’s table, diagonal as it was, working his way through a sleeve of toaster pastries he’d dug out of one of the cabinets that hadn’t been turned into driftwood. His eyes moved over the wreckage, taking in the layers of destruction with the curiosity of a man checking out a crime scene he had no stake in.

  The boat looked like it had lived three different lives, all ending in disaster. First, it was sleek, modern — polished steel, minimalist furniture. The kind of setup where rich assholes drank top-shelf whiskey and pretended to know things about wine. Then it had crashed through some dimensional rift and landed in a Mad Max fever dream — anarchy scrawled on every surface, furniture smashed, dicks spray-painted on the walls. Finally, it had delved into an Atlantean realm that left it covered in seaweed, crusted in salt, and flooded by an inch of standing water. Now it was back in the real world, traumatized by its dimensional journey, and barely holding together.

  Shoji admired the whole mess with mild amusement, nodding like he was at an art gallery. Then he took another bite of pastry. Sweet, crumbly, perfect. How long had it been since he’d had anything so damn tasty? Six days? A week? However long it was, too long.

  He broke off a piece and offered it to the battered blow-up doll wedged into the booth beside him. The poor plastic lady had seen better days — her wide-eyed, open-mouth look gave the impression she’d been riding shotgun the whole time as the yacht slipped between realities, and hadn’t stopped screaming since. Shoji chuckled and popped the pastry into his own mouth instead.

  “Of fuckin’ course,” Russell’s voice drifted in from somewhere down the hall. Shoji hadn’t spent much time with him — Russell, yeah, that was his name, right? They never did proper introductions. What Shoji had picked up was that Russell mainly spoke in curses, like it was his native tongue. Shoji shrugged. It was natural to be pissed, given their circumstances. Then his jaw tightened into a scowl — the circumstances didn’t excuse what Russell did.

  Russell stumbled in from one of the half-submerged rooms, wearing an oversized floral button-up that clashed like hell with the general air of doom in the galley.

  “Poseidon couldn’t have picked a better place to shove his dick into this boat,” Russell said, shaking his head. “That hole in the side? Yeah, that’s my room. All my shit, gone.” He chewed on the thought. “Not that I had all that much.”

  Russell tossed Shoji a bundle of cloth. “Buzz’s room wasn’t as bad. Grabbed what I could.”

  Shoji shook it out. A t-shirt, three sizes too big, screaming “BIG FUDGE’S BBQ” across the picture of a cartoon pig rubbing its nipples in sexual delight. He held it up like it was some sacred artifact from a lost civilization, his expression was pretty much unreadable.

  Russell chuckled. “Back in Hawaii, Buzz won that shirt for eating fifty ribs in one sitting. They put his picture on the wall and everything.” Probably should’ve mentioned that in the eulogy, he thought. “If you’re a vegetarian, we can probably fish up some Spazz shirts floating around here somewhere. But first, you and I gotta talk.”

  The galley’s L-shaped couch wrapped around the main table. Russell dropped into the short end, settling in like a guy sitting down to family dinner after just making bail. He gave the blow-up doll a nod. “Rhonda.” Neither she nor Shoji would look at him.

  Shoji worked his way through the last of his toaster pastry, chewing like Russell was background noise. Russell exhaled. They needed to clear the air.

  “Look, about the grenade. I should’ve told you what I was gonna do.” He said it like he was apologizing for taking the last beer out of the fridge — something he’d done plenty of times to Wayne back home.

  Shoji’s jaw slowed mid-chew. He shot Russell a look. Really? That’s the best you got?

  Russell rolled his shoulders, dragged in a breath, and laid it out.

  “If you’d known what I had planned, you wouldn’t have done it,” he said. “That thing looked eighty years old. It could’ve blown up in either one of our hands. I took the risk knowing full well I might lose a hand, maybe more. But I didn’t want that rattling around in your head while you were trying to hit a tiny-ass target — which, by the way, you did.”

  Shoji’s expression didn’t change. Not impressed. Not even close. He pulled out another toaster pastry, tore off a chunk, and went at it like Russell wasn’t even there.

  The crinkle of the wrapper filled the silence, and Russell felt himself getting defensive. He jabbed a finger at Shoji.

  “Let’s not forget, you introduced yourself by chucking rocks at my head and dumping a bucket of crabs on me. One of ‘em damn near took my dick off. So if anything, we’re even.”

  Shoji kept chewing, unbothered. So Russell kept digging, over-explaining, anything except what he should actually be saying.

  “You thought that was bad? I’d been carrying that thing around all goddamn day. Beating it against rocks, a fucking gorilla thonked that grenade against my head, man! I shoulda been dead ten times over. Then, while I was taking a shit in the grove earlier, I pulled it out, started scraping off the dirt and rust — hell, I think there was actual shit on it — and I found this little twist-off cap at the bottom of the handle. Says, ‘twist off to ignite.’ And, you know, I was out for blood, so I twisted the damn thing and handed it to you. That was it, alright?”

  Shoji froze mid-chew. His eyes narrowed.

  “You say so much. But no say sorry?” he snapped, his voice climbing.

  Russell breathed in, let it out slow. Truth was, Shoji had been solid. Whatever reason he’d had for not trusting the guy — mostly the rantings of those maniacs on the other side of the island — felt a little flimsy now. Russell, who didn’t trust many people in his life, was beginning to think Shoji might just be alright.

  “I’m sorry I stuck a live grenade in your hand without telling you.”

  Russell meant it. And Shoji could see it, but he wasn’t quite ready to forgive. He motioned around the galley, the ruined remains of what was already a wreck long before the ship went down.

  “Your boat?” he asked, eyes sharp with suspicion.

  Russell hesitated, then nodded. It was the kind of nod a guy gives when asked if he’s ever had a DUI before.

  “My boat,” Russell admitted.

  Shoji flicked his chewing chin at Rhonda.

  “Your fuck doll?”

  Russell shook his head. “Surprisingly not,” he said with a exhale of relief. “Rub N’ Tug Rhonda is a woman of the sea. She belongs to no man.”

  They sat there in silence for a moment, Russell waiting on Shoji’s final ruling.

  Then, with the slightest nod, Shoji ripped off a piece of toaster pastry and handed it over. Russell took it without a word, nodding back. He thought about the last time he sat at this table — him and Buzz, at each other’s throats over the broken navigational system, high as hell on Spazz and bad ideas. Maybe this table was cursed. Or maybe, it was where amends got made. Where things got set right.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Buzz was gone, and Spazz wasn’t calling the shots anymore. Russell had a clear head — well, mostly. He hated to admit it, but that pink-and-purple mist left in the wake of Buzz’s viking funeral, it might’ve hit his bloodstream just enough to get his brain humming.

  Let’s just hope that didn’t mean what he was about to say next was a terrible idea.

  “Shoji, you wanna go home?”

  Shoji nodded eagerly, already pulling the oversized BIG FUDGE’S BBQ t-shirt over his head.

  “Yeah, me too,” Russell said. “And unless you know something I don’t, this boat is our best bet.” He held his arms out to the carnage around them. “But, you know…”

  “Very broken,” Shoji said.

  “Yeah, very, very broken. We’ve established that. But broken shit can be fixed. Any chance you’re a mechanic, Shoji?”

  Shoji chewed, considering. Then shook his head. “In Japan, I work club.”

  He pumped his fists up and down like he was dancing to music unheard.

  “In Japan, you work club,” Russell repeated. Shit. “Well alright. In America, I work all over. But never on boats. One time, they hired me to work a summer booze cruise circuit around Lake Dobber. Fired me after the first day because I got too drunk. The irony is not lost on me.”

  Shoji stared, not sure what to do with that. Russell shook it off.

  “Alright, doesn’t take a boat mechanic to see the four big problems we got here,” he started, pointing down the hall toward what used to be his room. Water sloshed against the angled floor. “First, there’s a big fuckin’ hole in the boat. Needs patching.”

  Then he flicked a hand toward the top deck. “Second is the sail. Half of it’s in the water, the other half’s burned to hell. We need to fix it.”

  Shoji nodded, tracking so far.

  “Third thing.” Russell leaned across Rhonda, twisting the volume knob on the sound system in the wall. Back and forth, back and forth. Nothing. Dead as everything else in this wreck.

  “All the electronics are fried,” he said, sitting back. “Now, I don’t know what systems we absolutely need, or how the hell we’re gonna fix ‘em. But we’re gonna have to.”

  Then he stood, straightening against the yacht’s funhouse tilt. “Last part, and the biggest — we’re beached. This thing’s dug into the sand. We need a way to get it upright and floating again.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “And that’s about it.” Which was bullshit, and he knew it. There were a dozen things he wasn’t accounting for — like who the hell was actually gonna drive this thing if they ever got it working.

  Shoji held up his device, overwhelmed. “Too much. Only Level 5!”

  Fair enough. Their little funerary stunt had launched Shoji up to Level 5, while Russell — maybe because the raft was his idea, or maybe because he stood his ground against a mad-as-hell, one-eyed shark — had hit Level 3 and was already creeping toward 4.

  “I hear you. But we start simple. Fix what we can with what we’ve got. Meanwhile, we keep leveling up, unlocking new shit, and using that shit to put the boat back together.”

  Russell held up his own device. “But we gotta work together, man. Spend our points on what’s best for the boat. Two devices are better than one.”

  He dropped back into his seat, activating his device. “Right now, we each have a point to spend. Let’s see what we got.”

  Both of them tapped into their CRAFTING tab.

  Russell had three new options. First and foremost — FIBER CORDAGE.

  Looking around at the state of the boat, he had a feeling that was about to be his best friend. But Shoji already had that schematic. Seemed like, at least for these early levels, everyone got offered the same basic stuff, the things that would keep you alive for your first days on the island.

  Russell sized up the other two options.

  “Alright, now we’re talking,” Russell said, indicating towards his screen. “You’ve already got the rope, so I’ll get the axe, and we’ll be able to cut down some trees, make some wood for repairs.” Russell breathed in, thinking about actually cutting down a tree. “Never done that before, but I bet it won’t be so hard.”

  He looked over at Shoji’s options, a fresh set at Level 5. The Japanese characters changed to English the moment Russell looked over, and Shoji seemed to get a bit lost in the selection.

  Russell pointed at Shoji’s screen, weighing the options. “Alright, two of these could actually do us some good, Shoji,” he said. “This resin, they call it ‘nature’s duct tape’. We’ve got a lot of patching to do. The vine net, that ain’t bad either. But for now, I’d go with—”

  “Ok, ok!” Shoji said, fueled by excitement.

  Before Russell could stop him, Shoji tapped PRIMITIVE SLING and confirmed the selection. The screen flashed, and right on cue, the lazy ukulele twang of Jerry Riggs’ intro music filled the galley.

  “Fuck me!” Russell groaned, slamming his forehead against the angled table. “What the hell, man? Haven’t you slung enough goddamn rocks!?”

  Shoji blinked, clueless, his good mood curdling as Jerry Riggs started in on his lesson about slings. He frowned down at the screen, then groaned, frustrated.

  “Chikushō!” he shouted, apologetically, angrily. Russell knew a curse when he heard it.

  He exhaled, rubbing his face. Yeah, he saw what happened now. Must’ve been a translation thing. When he glanced at Shoji’s device, everything switched to English. Shoji must’ve lost track, got caught up in the moment, picked the wrong schematic without realizing.

  A mistake, plain and simple. No use crying over spilled milk. Especially since they were already up to their piggy-rubbin' tits in it.

  He straightened up, waving a hand. “It’s alright, I didn’t mean to yell. Watch your video. I’m gonna go up top and learn how to make an axe.”

  Shoji hesitated, then nodded, turning his attention to the screen as Jerry Riggs continued his overly enthusiastic spiel, now dubbed in a cartoonishly bad Japanese voiceover.

  The top deck felt like walking on a goddamn rooftop, every step threatening to send Russell sliding into the ocean. He grabbed onto what he could, planted himself down, and let the sun bake into his already blistering skin.

  It had been a productive day, but looking at the wreck around him, reality set in. They weren’t ready for this. Fixing the boat wasn’t a job for two guys bumbling their way through Jerry Riggs tutorials. It would take days, probably weeks. And that was if nothing else on this hellhole tried to kill them first.

  If they wanted a real shot, they needed more people. More hands, more schematics. And preferably, more folks who actually spoke goddamn English. Plus, who knew what else was out there? There was power in numbers.

  It was time for another plan.

  For today, he’d listen to sad-sack Jerry Riggs and learn how to make an axe, then try his hand at hacking down a few palms in the cove. They’d eat whatever scraps they could salvage from the wreck — mostly snacks, and maybe he’d chase it all down with a few swigs of Drivin’ Me Nanners. Then he’d sleep off the sunburns and aches that still hadn’t let up, get his body ready for a whole new round of them.

  Because tomorrow? Tomorrow, he’d do something real stupid. He’d haul his ass back through the jungle — God help him — and find those two psychos in the cave.

  And he’d ask if they wanted to go home too.

  Because Shoji and him — they weren’t getting off this island on their own.

  High above the grove, buried in the jungle’s thick mess, a green monster watched Russell through a battered pair of binoculars. From a distance, they blended into the landscape, just another part of the jungle. Up close, something else entirely — one of its deadliest predators, stitched together from moss, mud, and trash.

  But right now, they weren’t hunting. Just watching.

  The figure reached up and peeled back the hood of their home-made ghillie suit, revealing a woman in her late forties. Dark skin, dark eyes, sharp as the machete hanging off her hip. She pressed the binoculars back to her face, steady, patient.

  Down below, the man in the oversized floral shirt and skin-tight yellow briefs stared out over the wreckage of his situation, the weight of it pressing in on him. He didn’t know the she was watching. He never had.

  She had been tracking him since he washed up on the beach, watching the idiot in mascot leggings stumble from one disaster to the next. And somehow, against all odds, he kept moving forward. Chaos followed him — fires, explosions — but so did progress. It wasn’t just luck. She knew the type. That kind of momentum meant promise. Meant possibility.

  Could he have what it takes? Could he be the one to take on the game?

  She let the binoculars drop against her chest, lost in the tangle of moss and rags of her ghillie suit, and lifted a tattered sleeve to her scarred face. Her device flickered to life. It was an older model — much older than the one strapped to Russell’s wrist — but it still did the job.

  She swiped through the menus, past tools and options most poor fools never lived long enough to unlock.

  It didn’t take long before she found him. Russell Murphy. His middle-finger-flipping avatar stared back at her, his SPUNK score laid out, his growing list of BADASS feats logged in cold, clinical text.

  At the bottom of his profile, an option blinked.

  She clicked it.

  A confirmation box popped up.

  Her finger hovered over the screen.

  Then, somewhere in the jungle, a roar ripped through the trees.

  Russell’s head shot up, his eyes scanning the thicket. Right where she had been standing.

  But just like every other time she’d been there—

  He never saw a thing.

  Because she was already gone.