"Laymon, Richard - Island" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laymon Richard)

Billie shook her head at me. She was smiling slightly. "You're demented," she said. "Just don't say anything like that around Thelma."
"I wouldn't," I assured her.
She swayed sideways and bumped me a little with her shoulder. "I know," she said. "You're demented, but sensitive."
"That's me."
"Cut it out, huh?" Connie said. I think she meant both of us. I'd noticed before how it seemed to annoy her when Billie and I talked or goofed around. Come to think of it, just about everything about Billie seems to annoy her. Maybe it's one of those competition things, and she knows she doesn't measure up. I mean, her mother has her whipped in every department: looks, brains, sense of humor, compassion, you name it.
Must be hard on Connie. I'll have to be more understanding.
After she told us to cut it out, we just stood there silent as the "men" gathered floating treasures.
The sand of the beach was almost white. The water lapped in gently -- no big combers, I guess, because of the reef. (There'd been some pretty good waves right after the explosion, but they didn't last long.) The water, pale blue, was a little murky. It had been incredibly clear until the boat blew, and would probably be that way again in a while. There was a soft, warm breeze taking away the worst of the heat. And there were the gals.
Man oh man.
It's a shame that Prince Wesley had to go (I'm sure), and it's too bad that Thelma is taking it so hard, but I couldn't help thinking how lucky we were to be stranded in a place like this.
At feast far a while.
The longer the better, as far as I'm concerned.
Not really. But I wouldn't mind a couple of weeks, as long as we don't starve (no need to worry about fresh water, because of the stream).
After a white, Andrew and Keith returned with a boat full of odds and ends -- including some packets of food, but no bits or pieces of Wesley. I'm sure Connie was relieved.
"Is his body out there?" I asked.
"Bet on it," Keith said.
"We're going back out," Andrew said. "We've gotta salvage what we can."
"I could go with you, this time, if you need an extra set of hands."
"That's all right, chief," Andrew said. "Somebody's gotta stay here and watch out for the ladies."
Chief. He calls me chief quite a lot. It's like a thing with him. I'm almost nineteen years old, and he calls me chief like I'm a kid.
Oh, well, maybe it's quaint.
"Whatever you say, skipper," I told him.
He hoisted an eyebrow.
Anyway, Thelma and Kimberly came over. Thelma had stopped crying, and seemed groggy. They pitched in, and everyone helped to unload the boat. Then Andrew and Keith cranked up the dinghy's motor and took off to scour the inlet for more loot.
The gals got to work on the goodies we'd just unloaded, so I went over to our picnic area to get my notebook and a pen. They were in my book bag along with a couple of paperback books. Instead of taking them out, I just swung the bag onto my back and took the whole thing with me.
I called out, "I'll be back in a while." Before anyone could ask questions or offer to accompany me, I hurried off.
I walked alongside the stream, figuring to follow it into the jungle. Keith and Kimberly had gone exploring before lunch while the rest of us dinked around on the beach, and they said the stream led to a great little lagoon, complete with a waterfall -- if you hiked inland far enough.
My impression was that they took the hike to get away from the rest of us. They probably skinny-dipped in the lagoon, and I'd bet a million bucks they screwed.
I sort of wanted to see it and maybe take a little dip, myself -- but I was more interested in sitting beside the lagoon and getting to work on my journal.
When I started into the jungle, it looked pretty dense and creepy. No telling what sort of creatures might be lurking there. The open beach seemed a lot safer. So I gave up on following the stream, and went along the sand toward a big tower of rocks on the point.
The inlet is shaped like a large U, with the stream running down its center to join up with the salt water, and rocky points at each tip. The one ahead of me was higher than the other. It would give me a good view and all the privacy I needed.
The climb to the top winded me, but was worth it. The summit was probably forty or fifty feet above the water. When I got there, I took a while to look around. I could see the gals down on the beach. Also, I saw "the men" on the dinghy, hauling crap out of the water.
In places, the water was dear enough that I could see to the bottom. Mostly, though, it was still cloudy because of the explosion. I turned away pretty quick -- afraid that I might spot some leftover Wesley.
On the other side of the point, there's a lot more beach and jungle. No docks, no houses, no roads, no telephone poles, nothing to indicate the island has inhabitants.
I studied the sky and ocean. No aircraft, no boats.
After a check of our beach to make sure nobody was coming my way, I found myself a nice, sheltered nook in the rocks, sat down and started to write.
It's been very nice. No one can see me here. An overhang keeps the sun off me, and mere's a wonderful breeze. All I can see is a bit of ocean and the sky.
Now, I'm caught up to the present.
I feel like I've been at it for at least an hour, maybe a lot longer. I didn't keep track of the time. My butt's a little sore. I'm about ready to head back down and see what's going on.
Maybe I should leave my journal up here. Hide it in the rocks.
No, I'd better take it with me. If I leave it here, might be tough to retrieve it in case we suddenly get rescued. Also, something could happen. Some sort of wildlife might attack it -- I don't want my precious pages getting munched by an iguana or ending up as insulation for a bird nest. I'll keep it in my book bag, and take it with me everywhere so nobody will have a chance to lay eyes on what's written in here.
That's all for now.