On day 27, I switched back to the day shift. It was nice to see what the castaways were up to during the day. I was actually surprised by how well they fared. Even without a machete, they managed to catch lizards, crabs, open coconuts, and gather enough food to satisfy their needs. But, in the light of day, I realized something: one of the contestants was missing. I asked around, but no one seemed to know where she was, until I asked the producer.

“She quit. I brought her to Camp C,” he explained dismissively.

It was odd, especially since no one around camp seemed to notice her absence. Everyone was so busy gathering food and actively ignoring one another that they hadn’t even realized she was gone.

Another contestant went missing on day 29. This time, the absence did not go unnoticed by the other competitors. They started whispering to one another, wondering where he was. I was stunned that he, out of everyone, would have quit. He’d had the most mental fortitude out of all the contestants. He’d even won a competition the day before, which allowed him to devour an entire chicken dinner in front of the other castaways. Maybe he’d gotten sick from it. Maybe, in a moment of weakness, he decided to quit.

Little by little, it started to happen around Camp B, too. It was hard to notice at first: people were constantly running around, trying to stay on top of things. My schedule meant that I could go days without seeing Patrick and other crewmates, so I guess it’s not surprising that I didn’t notice it right away. Still, as the days went on, Camp B changed from a bustling common ground, to a ghost town. I only really noticed the extent of the disappearances when I came down with the flu and spent two full days at base camp. I was able to see a whole cycle of day and night shifts pass by, and I was certain we were missing at least five crew members. Worried, I knocked on the producer’s door.

“It’s me again,” I called, my forehead burning from the fever.

“What do you want?” he barked through the door.

I wasn’t surprised when he refused to open up. He wasn’t exactly the most welcoming of people, “Have you seen Mrs. Hernandez, Chad, Mr. O’Doyle, Blinkie, and Mrs. Johnson, sir? I’ve been looking everywhere for them.”

There was a long pause before the man replied, “They’re out filming Camp C.”

Satisfied, I returned to my tent. So that explains it, I thought. It made a lot of sense. They probably wanted to document what the quitters were doing, probably to create a shaming montage. Almost half the castaways had quit, after all. They needed more footage to fill up the episodes. I went back to bed, closed my eyes, and quickly dozed off, amidst a symphony of bugs singing outside my tent.

The screams woke me.

They were distant, but they pulled me out of my slumber. I sat up briskly, rubbing my tired eyes.

“What was that?” I murmured to the empty tent.

It was quiet outside. Not the chirp of a bird or the buzz of a cricket could be heard. I unzipped my tent and walked over to the Jeep. Just as I reached for the radio to check in, I heard a familiar voice breaking through the silent barrier that surrounded me.

“SOMEONE SEND HE-” screamed Patrick, his voice cut off, replaced by static.

I didn’t know what he wanted, but I knew what I heard. He sounded terrified. I bolted towards the producer’s trailer, not to speak with the arrogant jerk, but to take a look at the feeds. The trailer door, strangely enough, hung open on its hinges. I ran inside without announcing my presence. If he’d been home, he would have chewed me out, but the RV was empty. I felt like a kid sneaking my hand into the cookie jar. This was forbidden ground. I held my breath as I approached the TV screens.

Nothing but dead air.

I wanted to know what happened before the feeds went dark, so I pulled up the recordings and took a look. I chose one of the palm tree cameras, which gave me a good view of the whole camp. Everything seemed in order, until a few moments before the camera died. All I could see was a dark shape swing in its line of sight, and then static. Was I losing my mind? Making a mountain out of a molehill? Surely, it was just a bird. It must have knocked the camera off somehow. My stomach cramped with worry as I started another video. The same thing happened. Everything was fine one second, and dark the next.

I ran back to the Jeep, throwing myself into the driver’s seat. My mind was hazy from the flu, but I was determined to find out what was going on. If I didn’t get answers from the cameras, then I would get them directly from the source. I drove to Camp A as the sun began to rise on the horizon. Its warm rays lit the waves, causing them to sparkle like diamonds.

Camp A was empty and in disarray. The contestants had never been particularly tidy, but it was worse than usual. My feet sunk into the wet sand as I walked towards the shelter. Where was everyone? It then occurred to me that it was day 35, competition day. I laughed out loud, realizing I’d been worrying over nothing. The contestants and crew were probably filming the weekly competition in the forest. Patrick likely radioed me to ask for some equipment, but then went out of range. I sighed at my own foolishness. My theory explained everything … except the cameras. They couldn’t have all gone dead at the same time.

I walked towards the nearest camera, my feet struggling in the moist sand, and found it hanging from the tree. Its lens had been shattered. Maybe a gust of wind had sent it knocking against the truck? Yeah, that’s it, I thought. I made my way to the next camera. It, too, was broken. Goosebumps formed over my skin. Had there been a storm? No, the wind and rain would have woken me.

As I made my way through camp, I spotted a camera on the ground. I walked over and, to my surprise, found Patrick curled up in the fetal position behind a bush. Hesitantly, I reached for him and turned him towards me. An elongated gash had found its way across his chest.

It was the distinguishable mark of a machete.

I screamed and stumbled back. Never in my life had I seen a human body. I didn’t know what to do. Petrified, I watched Patrick for a moment, while my hands slowly sunk into the wet sand. I could feel the moisture transfer onto my skin. It didn’t rain last night, I recalled. I swallowed a knot in my throat, barely managing to convince myself to look down at my hands. They were stained red. I screamed and jumped to my feet, looking myself over. Blood-soaked globs of sand clung to my pants and stained my running shoes a dark reddish-brown hue.

I ran to the Jeep as fast as my feet would take me, running through bloodied sand. It was everywhere. The spread of it was unnatural. It was as though the beach had been hosed down with blood, yet the only scent to fill my nostrils was that of the ocean breeze. In a frantic panic, I turned the keys in the ignition, and drove back to Camp B. I had no idea what had happened to my colleagues or to the contestants, all I knew was that I needed to run. I felt like I had walked through something unholy and needed to scrub myself until I bled. I wanted to shower. Clean all the muck from my skin.

Once I returned to Camp B, I realized something I had failed to notice that morning: everyone was gone. Had they heard the commotion as well? Had they gone to investigate? What was I supposed to do? I was on an island, away from civilization. I couldn’t exactly call the cops. Where was the producer? Questions swirled in my head, but not a single answer came to me. As I walked around camp, I noticed all our food had gone missing. I cautiously walked towards the producer’s RV. Its door swung shut in the breeze.

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

A severed hand had been pinned to the trailer door using the missing machete. I heard the sound of our only speed boat racing away as I read a single sentence scrawled out in bloody, jagged lettering: There was no Camp C.

I looked to the horizon and saw five shapes in the boat. The five contestants that had been abandoned in the forest just a few days after the competition began. They were covered in blood.

Luck.

Dumb luck is the only reason I survived. I’m not sure at what point in time they attacked Camp B: before, or after I investigated Camp A. But either way, I was lucky enough to escape both massacres. By some miracle, I made it out alive. I was alone on the island until the supply ship made its rounds a few days later.

To this day, I don’t know where those five contestants are. I just hope they got lost at sea.