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.