Myrtle Beach, South Carolina Christopher still stared toward shore, but periodically, his gaze slipped to where what looked like a jet ski was engaged in a methodical search of every boat within a mile of shore. He could not help but wonder if it was Matthew.
Damn, Spencer, why aren't you calling me back to let me know what's going on? Christopher had searched the boat from top to bottom and inside to out. There were no weapons of any kind aboard…absolutely nothing to protect himself with. He released a frustrated sigh. Another stupid move on my part. His gaze strayed to where Kristy's photograph still stuck out of the groove in the yard arm. He had lied to himself before; the picture did not make him feel any less alone. In fact, if anything, it reminded of how alone he really was.
Christopher performed a slow, one hundred eighty degree turn upon the sound of an approaching engine. It could be that jet ski, he mused. Or it could be Matthew Fox. He could see nothing in the blanket of darkness that surrounded him and, as was common on out on the ocean, he could not even tell for sure which direction the noise was coming from.
The sound was getting louder though, and was beginning to more closely resemble an inboard hotrod engine than a jet ski. He relaxed, if only a little.
Suddenly, when the volume of the engine was almost ear-splitting, the boat came into view. Spencer's telltale orange hat was the first thing Christopher saw. He smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe Matthew Fox was in jail… Christopher leaned over the railing to grab the bow of the ski boat. "Where'd you get this?" He laughed. "This thing is a hotrod."
The engine stopped and a wisp of smoke wafted past Christopher's face. The man in the boat still had his head tilted downward.
"Spencer?"
The orange hat came up, along with an unfamiliar face. "I'm not Spencer, but you are Christopher Gilbert."
Christopher stumbled backward, tripped over a coil of rope and sprawled to the deck. He scrambled to his feet again a moment later. His face had paled to a sickly pallor, and he stuttered to form his words. "What the hell…" was all that came out of his mouth.
Matthew stepped from the speed boat onto the sailboat, and Christopher stared at the 44 Magnum (be specific about the type of gun…change this is you need to) he held in his hand. "You're the last one." He smiled. "No million dollars for you, either."
"You're the guy?"
"I'm the guy. You cashed my check and promised to give me a good run. You did that, and I thank you."
"Yeah, a run! You're not supposed to kill anybody!"
"Been talking to someone, have you? How do you know the other contestants are dead?"
