"…Tell by the way I use my walk… woman’s man, no time to talk…”

  The fine folks at Spazz Energy had only two conditions that Russell had to abide by before he could join Buzz Holiday on his viral adventure. First, he had to scrawl his name on a mountain of paperwork swearing he’d never let slip what he already knew — that too much Spazz turned civilized men into jittery, adrenaline chasing meth gremlins. No problem. The second? He had to pass some online CPR course in case Buzz had, as the corporate suits delicately put it, an event.

  Well, Buzz had an event, alright. But CPR couldn’t have done shit about it.

  Still, Russell had taken the course. Followed all the steps, clicked all the little boxes, aced the quiz like a goddamn model medical professional. Never thought he’d need it again. But here he was, kneeling in a tide pool of garbage, pumping the life back into Conrad Rock-Hard, keeping pace with Stayin’ Alive like that cringey, disco-dressed instructor told him to do.

  "We can try… understand… New York Times effect on… C’mon, you big dumb bastard. Don’t die."

  Conrad smelled like mildew and the cologne they’d found in the cave. It was the kind of scent that clung to the seats in a strip club. His skin was slick, cold. And Russell didn’t doubt for a second that Conrad’s lips had been in and on a whole mess of holes, flaps and cheeks that most men would never dare. But Russell boxed that thought up and pressed his lips to Conrad’s, forcing air into his lungs. Again and again, pushing, breathing, whispering funk lyrics and bargaining with a god he didn’t even believe in.

  “Untie, yeah?” Shoji offered from a safe distance, like death might be contagious.

  Russell didn’t respond. Maybe he should untie the guy, let the air move freer. But untying a lunatic mid-revival came with a set of risks, ones he wasn’t ready to bet on.

  He took a big breath and leaned down, pushing one more gust of life into the madman, and Conrad shot back to life.

  The bastard’s body convulsed like he’d been kicked out of hell for bad behavior, eyes wide, bloodshot, fucking furious. He kicked and snarled and Russell backed off him like he was a bag of rattlesnakes — but he didn’t move quick enough. Conrad headbutted him right in the goddamn face.

  Stars exploded in Russell’s skull. He hit the rocks, head ringing like a church bell. “Jesus Christ, man!” He shouted, rubbing his forehead. “I just saved your ass!”

  Conrad hacked up seawater and shot him a look of evil. “Pussy!” he wheezed, coughing up another lung. Then, without missing a beat: “Had to drown me just to get some free action, huh? What a bitch.”

  Russell sat up, holding his head. “Nobody drowned you, dumb shit! You slipped. Lucky we saw you in time.”

  Conrad snarled. “If I wasn’t tied up, that wouldn’t have happened, would it?” He flexed, veins popping out on his forehead again, trying to hulk his way out of the bindings.

  What worried Russell most was that it might actually work. Still, he just shook his head — half in disbelief, half in some twisted kind of admiration. Hard to say. This motherfucker was built out of pure, undiluted hardheadedness.

  Russell pushed himself up, fought past the dizziness. “My man, you’re in need of a serious time-out. And maybe a little more restraint.”

  A minute later, he was back with the other bungee cord. Shoji helped him loop it around Conrad’s ankles, pull it snug, then hook it to the one already locked around his wrists. Full hogtie, real tight-like. Conrad thrashed, snarled, threw out a full catalog of insults, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Pair of fucking bitches,” he said, spitting more seawater at them.

  Russell and Shoji stepped back, hands on hips, admiring their work like they’d just finished assembling Swedish furniture. Conrad, meanwhile, was working through every curse word in the book.

  Shoji turned to Russell. “Want crafting?” he asked, like he was inviting him out for a beer.

  Russell pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling the sticky warmth, thinking past the insults still flying in his direction. Then he gave a slow nod.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Back in the real world, Russell would’ve taken these early failures at crafting as a sign to quit. Called the whole thing lame, tossed the scraps, and found the nearest bar that’d sell him a shot and a beer for less than six bucks. But that wasn’t an option anymore. He’d burned a vital point learning how to make a PRIMITIVE AXE, and by god, he was gonna make one — one that didn’t fall apart like a dollar-store toy.

  He looked around at Conrad’s empire of junk — trash Russell had turned his nose up at two days ago. He knew better now.

  Around here, junk wasn’t just junk. Everything had a use.

  So while Shoji tore through the mess of tarp, fishing line, VHS tape, and human remains like a deranged bargain hunter, Russell plopped himself down on the rocks, exhaled heavy, and pulled up Jerry Riggs’ tutorial for crafting a PRIMITIVE AXE.

  “Salutations, folks!” Jerry began, chipper as ever, wrapped up in his calling-card flannel.

  It was his second time watching, so as Jerry waddled through his usual bullshit intro, Russell tuned in to the finer details he’d missed the first time around.

  Jerry looked rougher. Scruff a little thicker, the bags under his eyes darker. The whole Ned Flanders routine wasn’t holding up so well. Maybe it was the angle of the sun in the video, or the glare bouncing off the screen here in the real world, but Russell could swear Jerry had a little makeup on — just enough to dull the bruise blooming on his cheek.

  Russell leaned in, listening closer as Jerry finally got to the real meat of it. The survivalist picked up a length of cut timber, holding it in front of the camera like it was the goddamn Holy Grail.

  “It all starts with the handle,” Jerry said, like he was passing down sacred wisdom. “You’ll want something that’ll last. Lucky for you, the island’s got plenty of wood to go around. But be smart about it — tropic hardwood is what you’re looking for. Bamboo, palm wood? Won’t get you far unless it’s the thick stuff. And since you don’t have an axe yet, best bet’s a strong piece of driftwood. Stuff’s always washing in, eh?”

  “Fuck that Canadian fuck and fuck you!” Conrad screamed. “I showed his wife a hard piece of wood last night, that’s why he’s always crying like a bitch!”

  Russell hit pause, ignoring the hogtied shit-slinger. Seemed like his favorite material, bamboo, had finally screwed him over. Or maybe he just picked the wrong batch. The stuff from the grove must’ve been too young, too soft.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Hardwood…” he mused to himself, eyes drifting over the tide pools. “Shoji!” Russell called out.

  A few feet away, the little man popped up from beneath the FUCK YOU tarp, hands wrapped in VHS tape, blinking like a turtle disturbed from his shell. Russell held out his hands, miming the length he needed.

  “Wood? Or something strong?”

  Shoji thought for a moment, then dove underneath the tarp, only to re-emerge with one of the skeleton’s arm bones, shaking it like it was just the thing he was looking for. Russell hated that he considered it, for a moment.

  “Did you do more Spazz?” he asked pointedly.

  Still holding the arm bone, Shoji lifted his other hand, squeezing his thumb and pointer together. “Little bit,” he said.

  God dammit, Russell thought. He’d have to keep a check on the little guy. Watch out for any clear signs of “fiend shit” — besides offering up a dead man’s arm like it was nothing. In the meantime, he had a handle to find.

  It didn’t take long tromping around the tide pools to fish out a solid piece of driftwood — straight, thick as a fist, forked at the top. Perfect, or so Russell hoped.

  “Once a thief, always a thief,” Conrad bellowed. “I got plans for that wood! You hear me?”

  Russell settled in again, hit play, and let Jerry Riggs tell him how to turn this driftwood into something worth swinging.

  “Let’s talk axe-heads,” Jerry droned on. “You want something with a good, sharp edge — one that'll bite into wood without shattering into pieces. Like my marriage.” Jerry gave a little, regretful chuckle, then looked off-screen before shaking it off. “Flint or chert will do you for now, but if you haven’t heard me say it before, lemme say it once more. This island is covered in stuff you wouldn’t believe. Metal is your pal, and a nice flat, sharp piece of it will make for a heckuva axe-head.”

  “Look at you dumbass!” Conrad mocked. “Learning how to make a dildo from a cuck!”

  Russell chewed his lip, thinking of his next step. His first axe-head had been flint, mostly because it was easy to find against the cove’s cliffs, and, well, he wasn’t about to go hacking metal off the yacht just to build a better hatchet. But this soggy junkyard would provide. Hell, he didn’t even have to wade in — Conrad had already fished a big hunk of metal out himself.

  Russell walked over to the pinball machine. Behind him, he felt Conrad coil up, readying to strike.

  “What’re you doing, bro? Stay away from that.”

  Russell sized up the machine — a relic from some other life, rusted as hell, half-drowned, all the way forgotten. The art, the high-score display, all of it had long since faded. The bright reds and yellows of the cabinet now looked like old blood and piss-stains. The shattered glass exposed a playfield that had become a coral reef. The whole thing made him chuckle. What the fuck was this thing doing all the way here? Russell had played his share of pinball growing up, losing hours in dingy mall arcades and pizza joints. For the hell of it, Russell pulled on the faded red plunger, but it was rusted into place.

  “Stop touching my stuff!” Conrad shouted. “You hear me, muppet-boy?”

  Russell’s eyes landed on the magazine, perched delicately against the backboard. The reason that Conrad’s shit-talking now had a tint of begging behind it. The woman on the cover had been carefully positioned for the best possible view of the sea.

  Russell smirked. “She’s pretty,” he said, glancing at Conrad. “Old, but, you know.”

  “What the fuck do you know, huh? Just cause you ditched your fuzzy pants for a that little ball bag you got on doesn’t mean you’ve ever had any.”

  Russell had already moved on, past his reminiscing, past poking fun at Conrad’s odd habits. He crouched down and grabbed at the rusted edge of the pinball machine’s side panel. All it took was one good pull — the machine shrieked, then gave way, sending Russell on his ass, a jagged chunk of metal gripped in his hands.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” he said, holding it up to Conrad. Flat. Heavy. Broken into a rough triangle. A faded-red wedge of destruction — if he could just get the damn thing to stay put on his handle.

  “Add it to the list, bitch,” Conrad muttered, just a little less bite in his voice than before.

  Feeling the itch of progress, Russell pressed play on Jerry Riggs’ video one last time. He fast-forwarded past a sponsored segment for some bail bondsman called Seventh Chances. It lasted longer than it should have, on account of Jerry struggling to get free of the handcuffs he'd slapped on himself as part of the ad. But like any good survivalist, he got there eventually. That's when Russell returned the video to a normal speed.

  “There are a few ways to secure your axe-head to your handle, but the best option is a wedge-and-bind, eh? Create a split at the top of your handle, just enough to wedge your axe-head in by a few inches.”

  Jerry demonstrated, slamming his handle down on a sharp rock like he was a jungle judge. Just a few good smacks was all it took.

  “Then,” he continued, “as the name implies, you’re gonna bind the living heck out of it. Lock the axe-head in tight. Now, if you’ve unlocked FIBER CORDAGE, you’ve got a head start, but I’d still recommend scavenging for something stronger. Man-made cordage, the good stuff. Stronger the better, tighter the better.”

  Then Jerry hesitated, cleared his throat, and raised a “one-last-thing” finger.

  “Also, if you did unlock FIBER CORDAGE, I’d like to apologize for the bit of crying in the middle of that video. It was supposed to be our anniver—”

  Russell closed the video with a sigh. He turned to Conrad. “Man, the only thing worse than your bullshit is Jerry Riggs moaning about his wife.”

  “Tell me about it,” Conrad responded automatically.

  They both paused at their unexpected moment of comradery, then shook it off in turn. Without hesitation, Russell slammed down his driftwood handle into the nearest, sharpest rock he could find, resulting in a satisfying CRACK!

  He held it up, inspecting the divot he made between the branching forks. Man, oh man, he thought, this might actually work.

  “Shoji!” he called out. “Let’s regroup!”

  The FUCK YOU tarp was spread flat across a patch of rock above the tide, the two banana-hammocked castaways and Tumzy sat cross-legged on top of it, knee-deep in their hillbilly arts and crafts. Between them, semi-organized spools of fishing line and VHS tape sat in messy piles, the remnants of what had taken Shoji a good while to untangle from the tarp, plus a few extra VHS tapes Russell had fished out of the tide pools.

  Shoji, quick-handed and methodical, had already churned out enough rope to hang a whole death row. Russell, meanwhile, had just about managed a foot or two of the stuff, his stubby fingers looping and twisting like a man trying to hotwire a car with no instructions. It wasn’t pretty, but it held.

  “This stuff is strong, dude,” Russell said, holding up his latest piece, pulling it taut between his hands.

  “Very good,” Shoji agreed, flipping his nearly-finished sling in the air. “Very strong.”

  From just off the tarp, Conrad scoffed. Still hogtied, lying on his side like an overstuffed burrito, he’d been forced to watch their bush-league survival hour for the better part of, well, however long it had been.

  “You two done sucking each other off?” he said. There was a weariness about him. He craned his neck forward toward the water bottle Russell had left in front of him — complete with a fast-food straw plucked from the pools. His busted lips puckered like a flounder, inching for the straw, the struggle of a man reduced to baby-bird status.

  Russell didn’t look up from his work. “Make it count. That’s your last bottle,” he said, twisting another length of VHS tape into place. “Unless you’re ready to talk terms.”

  Conrad stared at him, lips locked around the straw like a stubborn kid refusing to show how much he really enjoyed his milkshake. The fire that kept him spitting venom had dulled, replaced by something closer to helplessness. He let go, exhaling slow.

  “So y’all really found a boat?” he asked, voice lower now. “Like, for real, for real?”

  Both of them nodded.

  “The one I was on before all this,” Russell said, twisting the cordage tight around the wedge of his axe-head. “It can get us out of here. Just needs fixing up. Get it running again.”

  Conrad eyed him, heavy. “You’re a thief,” he said. “Just like Shoji. How do I know you ain’t a liar like him, too?”

  Shoji’s hands froze mid-knot. His head snapped up, eyes sharp. “Not a liar!” he barked. Russell raised an eyebrow.

  “Alright,” he said, setting his almost-axe down. “What’s the deal between you two? Shoji’s been straight-up with me. Saved my ass, even. I’ll admit, his introductions could use some work, but I don’t think he’s the shit-heel you’re making him out to be.”

  Conrad let out a dry chuckle. He turned, speaking straight at Shoji.

  “That’s his game,” Conrad said. “Acting like he’s on the level, until you get comfortable. Till you let your guard down. Ain’t that right, little man? Gotta give you props, though — you caught on faster than the rest of us. Crawled outta that plane, took one look around, and just knew the only way to play the game was to play dirty.”

  Shoji muttered something in Japanese, too quiet to catch. A curse, maybe. Or maybe he was just done explaining himself. Either way, Russell caught the thread that needed pulling.

  “Airplane?” he asked. “You all crashed here?”

  Conrad nodded. “Yeah. Me, Mari, this slimy fuck. Some others, too.”

  Others. More hands. More schematics. More progress. Russell went back to his work, tightening the cordage with every rotation.

  “What happened to them?” he asked. “The others?”

  “Shit, some of ‘em died, bro. Out in the jungle.” Conrad shrugged, like it was just another thing that happened. “But if you’re tryin’ to play Where the Fuck is Waldo, go find Mari. If the boat’s actually real, you’re gonna need her anyway.”

  Russell’s ears perked up once more. “Mari worked on boats?”

  Conrad chuckled like he’d just told himself a joke. “Let’s just say, Mari’s spent a lot of time below deck.”

  Russell glanced at Shoji, but the guy wasn’t biting. Too deep into his work, tying off his sling with laser focus, shoving all those slights against his honor into something useful. Probably for the best.

  “Look,” Conrad said, propping himself up on one elbow now, getting comfortable. “Mari knows boats, alright? Least that’s what she told me. But she also told me we were in this thing together, so I don’t know, bro. Maybe I’m just surrounded by liars.” He stared off into the jungle. “Island of the goddamn liars.”

  As Russell gnawed on this T-bone of intel, he made final adjustments, pulling the cordage tight, setting the axe-head as deep as it would go. The thing felt solid. Real. He held it up high. The chunk of rusty-red metal was wedged in firm, its jagged end gaping outward, ready to do some damage. He gave it a few test swings — nothing rattled, nothing slipped. The cordage held strong.

  Shoji gave it a nod of approval, a quick pat on the back. Even Conrad glanced at it before looking away, pretending he wasn’t impressed. Russell snorted, a little smile took shape. It was hard not to feel a little proud — he’d made this with his own two hands. Even through all his tears and moaning, Jerry Riggs himself would probably be impressed.

  Russell hoisted the axe over his shoulder like it was the key to his future. “Alright,” he said, standing up. “You don’t want in? Fine. Stay here and jerk yourself silly. But I’m not cutting you loose until you tell us where to find Mari.”

  Conrad rolled his eyes, shrugged like he was ready to spill — then stopped cold.

  All three of their devices chirped at once. Not the usual level-up chime. No perk unlock. Something else. Something Russell didn’t recognize. But the other two? They sure as hell did.

  Shoji shot to his feet, ripped his device to his face, and muttered a single curse. Conrad thrashed like a fish, knocking over his water in a futile attempt to glance at his device. “Not this shit again!” he howled. “What kind is it this time, bro? What’s it say?”

  Russell looked down at his screen. A bright banner stretched across it, crisp and bold, no mistaking the message.

  eventful. Heh.

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