Stranded with Them: From Outcast to Island King

Episode 4

Arkan looked at Maya. She was the only one whose eyes held empathy instead of calculation. He reached into his belt and pulled out the half-empty bottle he’d been sipping on. He tossed it to her. She caught it with a grateful nod, immediately moving to wet the lips of the man with the injured leg.

“Give the rest to me,” Hartono demanded, his hand outstretched. “I’ll manage the distribution.”

“I found this on the shore,” Arkan said, his voice turning cold. “It belongs to the man with the strength to carry it. If you want water, Hartono, the tide is bringing in more junk three miles down the beach. Start walking.”

“You insolent little—” Hartono turned to the security guards. “Jim, Miller. Relieve him of that bag. He’s clearly suffering from heatstroke and can’t think straight.”

Jim, the larger of the two, took a hesitant step. He was dehydrated, his lips cracked and white. “Look, kid. Don’t make this difficult. Just hand it over and we’ll give you a fair share later.”

Arkan didn't reach for a tool. He didn't even move. He just looked Jim in the eyes. “Jim, right? You used to work the gate at the harbor. You have a daughter, Molly. She’s five. You want to see her again?”

Jim blinked, startled. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything,” Arkan said. “Hartono is going to sit on those bottles and drink his fill while the rest of you wither away. If you follow him, you’re choosing to die with a master. If you follow your instincts, you’ll start looking for your own resources.”

“He’s inciting a mutiny!” Zara shrieked, her voice echoing off the trees. “Jim, do your job! This is an order!”

Jim looked at Hartono, then at Arkan. The conditioning won for now. He reached out to grab Arkan’s shoulder. “Give me the bag, Arkan.”

Arkan sighed. He didn't want this yet. It was too early. But if he gave in now, he was dead. He waited until Jim’s fingers grazed the heavy fabric of his pack, then he shifted his weight. In one smooth motion, Arkan used the pry bar hanging from his belt—the heavy steel end striking Jim’s forearm with a sickening thwack.

Jim cried out, pulling his arm back, his face contorted in pain. “God! You broke it! He’s armed!”

The other guard, Miller, hesitated. He saw the cold, detached look in Arkan’s eyes. Arkan didn't look like a technician. He looked like a hunter who had just spotted a clumsy predator.

“Stay back,” Arkan warned. “I didn't break his arm, Jim. I just hit the nerve. It’ll be numb for an hour. The next time, I’ll use the blade. And believe me, Hartono isn’t worth a bleed-out in this heat.”

“Stop!” Maya screamed, throwing herself between Arkan and the guards. “Have we lost our minds? We’ve been here six hours! We are human beings!”

“Human beings have rules, Maya!” Hartono yelled, hiding behind the luggage. “This man is a criminal! He’s stealing from survivors!”

Arkan looked at Maya. “I have water for myself. I have a fire-starter. I have tools. What do you have?”

“I have eight people with dehydration and one with a deep laceration,” Maya said, her eyes begging him. “Arkan, please. Give me something I can use. A knife. A way to clean the wound.”

Arkan reached into his bag and pulled out the small, ceramic knife. He looked at it, then at Maya. He held it out, handle-first. “For you. Only for you. If I see anyone else touching it, I take it back.”

Maya grabbed it, her hand brushing his. Her fingers were trembling. “Thank you.”

“Now, a word of advice for the ‘executives,’” Arkan said, turning back to Hartono and Zara. “The tide is turning. Within three hours, that section of beach where you’re keeping the luggage will be underwater. The wind is picking up from the west. There’s a storm coming tonight.”

“Liar,” Zara spat. “The sky is perfectly clear.”

Arkan pointed at a group of small crabs that were frantically digging deeper into the dunes. “Watch the animals, Zara. They don't have PR teams to tell them lies. If you don't move inland and find a way to trap the rain, you’ll be dead by morning.”

“We aren't going into that jungle,” Hartono said, looking at the dark green shadows with primal fear. “Rescuers will be here any minute. We stay on the beach. We stay where we can be seen.”

“Good luck with that,” Arkan said. He adjusted his pack, turned his back on them, and began walking toward the tree line.

“Wait!” Maya called out. “Where are you going?”

“To live,” Arkan said without looking back.

“Don’t let him leave!” Zara shouted. “He has the supplies! He knows how to fix things! We can’t just let a common worker walk away with our chances of survival!”

“You made your choice on the boat, Zara!” Arkan yelled over his shoulder, his voice filled with a decade of repressed resentment. “You said I was replaceable. So go ahead. Replace me.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Arkan felt the eyes of the survivors burning into his back—judgmental, terrified, and full of hate. He reached the edge of the jungle, the cool humidity of the canopy wrapping around him like a wet blanket. He looked at the lush green hell ahead and felt more at home there than he did on that white beach.

“He won’t last an hour,” he heard Hartono say behind him, the man’s voice desperately trying to sound authoritative. “The jungle is full of predators and disease. He’s basically committing suicide. Forget him.”

“Exactly,” Zara added, her voice high and brittle. “He’s just a technician. What does he know about surviving? He’s used to following orders, not giving them. Once his three liters of water are gone, he’ll be back here crawling on his knees, begging for a scrap of my granola bar.”

Arkan smiled. A genuine, dangerous smile. He stepped over a rotted log, his senses sharpening as he entered the shadows. He didn't see a jungle. He saw a machine—a complex, biological engine that he intended to master.

He hiked for what felt like miles, moving uphill toward a ridge that looked like it held shelter. His body was a map of pain, but his mind was crystal clear. Every five minutes, he checked his compass. Every ten, he marked a tree with his pry bar. He was mapping the terrain. He wasn't just surviving; he was claiming it.

As the sun began its slow dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of purple and orange, Arkan found what he was looking for. A small cave, more of an overhang, nestled under a granite cliff. It was dry, it was hidden, and it smelled of old earth and dry leaves.

He dropped his pack and leaned against the cold stone, gasping for breath. His hands were shaking again, but not from exhaustion. It was adrenaline. He had survived the wreck, the ocean, and the elites. He was the king of a one-man world.

But the island wasn't as empty as he thought.

Arkan reached into his bag for the fire starter, his fingers fumbling in the gloom. He needed a flame before the predators came out. He struck the magnesium rod, sparks showering a small pile of dry moss he’d gathered. Once, twice, and then—whoosh. A small, orange flick of life bloomed in the dark.

In the sudden light, Arkan froze.

There, scrawled on the back wall of his "secret" cave, were markings. Not tribal paintings. Not ancient history. They were tally marks. Hundreds of them, carved into the stone with something sharp. And next to them, in English, a single word that chilled him more than the cold Pacific ever could.

SOON.

Arkan stared at the word, the small fire dancing in the reflection of his eyes. He wasn't the first one to find this place. And according to the fresh, unweathered dust at the bottom of the carving, whoever had been here was still around.

A rustle in the leaves outside the cave caught his ear. Not the heavy plodding of an animal. A soft, deliberate step. A footfall of someone who didn't want to be heard.

Arkan grabbed his pry bar, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened. He looked toward the opening of the cave, where the jungle was being devoured by the oncoming night. The "judging sand" of the beach was miles away, and so were the petty squabbles of Hartono and Zara.

A pair of eyes—uncomfortably bright and unsettlingly human—glowed in the reflection of his fire from the shadows of a nearby ferns.

“Come on,” Arkan whispered, the fire casting long, dancing shadows against the cave walls. “Show me if the island thinks I’m replaceable, too.”

From the darkness of the trees, a voice that was soft, musical, and terrifyingly calm drifted toward him.

“You brought fire, Technician. That was a mistake. They can see you now.”

The flame in his hands flickered and died, plunged back into a silence so thick he could hear his own heartbeat. Arkan didn't panic. He took a deep breath, shifted into a defensive stance, and felt a cold thrill. The real game was just beginning.

“Who’s they?” Arkan asked into the dark.

The answer came as a chilling laughter, cut short by the scream of a creature from deeper in the woods.

“The ones who were here before the ship sank, Arkan. The ones who are very, very hungry.”