I lean back into him before my brain can object, my spine pressing against his chest, my bum practically clicking into place against his shorts as the water pours over us.
I turn my head slightly so I can look at him and as I stare into his eyes he gives me a smile that says?—
‘Am I interrupting something?’ Ozzy calls out.
His voice practically barges between us, separating us suddenly.
‘I’m just – we’re just washing the mud off,’ I say, probably too loudly, like someone caught in the act.
‘Find anything out, mate?’ he asks Lockie.
‘The cameras look dead,’ he replies. ‘I think we’re offline. We’ll just have to hole up until the crew sends a rescue.’
Ozzy’s reaction is very on-brand: no meltdown, no worries, he just practically embraces the potential end of the world. ‘Okay,’ he replies. ‘Then I’ll manage the emergency protocols. We’ll be back up and running in no time.’
Of course we will. Ozzy lives for stuff like this.
‘The shelters are half up,’ he tells us. ‘We’ve still got the beds. I can get a fire going with the dry stuff I found under the tarps. There’s driftwood everywhere. The weather has levelled out. We’ll handle it, so… let’s go.’
I’m so glad he’s here – our island daddy. Well, with no producers pulling the strings, no supply drops, no hatch giving us just enough stuff to keep us going, we really are surviving on our own.
Ozzy walks off into the trees.
‘We’d better follow him,’ Lockie says, running his hands through his wet hair.
I can’t help but let out a little laugh.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ I tell him. ‘Next time you’re thinking about raising the stakes.’
He half smiles, half sighs.
Well, it’s all good and fine saying you want the islanders to feel deserted, until you are one, and you’re actually cut off from civilisation.
All we can do is our best now. It really will be survival of the fittest – or whoever is coupled off with the fittest, at least.
20
By the time we make it back to camp, the adrenaline has worn off, and all that’s left is silence – the uneasy, stunned kind of silence that settles around everyone like a fog.
The wind moves through the trees – nothing like it was doing earlier – with a gentle sound, the waves are crashing gently again, it’s like the island is done being chaotic. I wish I could say the same for the rest of us.
We’re all waiting for the same thing: that familiar, bossy, ominous voice to come through the speakers. The one that usually tells us what to do, what not to do, when to do it and so on. We need our instructions.
But it doesn’t come. I don’t know how long we wait, but the quiet in the group feels more unbearable as time ticks by.
Camilla’s the first to break the silence. She smooths her hair, regaining her composure – or trying to at least.
‘So… what now?’ she asks. Her voice trembles, but she covers it well enough with her usual snootiness.
No one answers immediately. Everyone’s eyes flick around camp, looking at each other, or the treeline, or the sea – looking for whoever is going to come and save the day. Still, no one appears. Not even a voice through the speaker to tell us to hang in there.
Lockie rubs a hand over his jaw, his brow furrowed in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen before – well, he’s usually so chilled out.
‘I think we’re off-air,’ he mutters, more to himself than anyone. ‘We would have heard something by now, if we were still connected.’
He looks up, meets my eyes for a fraction too long. For just a second, I see the real Lockie – and he looks scared.
