John was the first. One misstep and the grey cloud enveloped him. He screamed and thrashed but there was nothing we could do. He lay dead on the jungle floor, covered in thousands of tiny welts.
Killer bees, just one more thing to watch out for on this island.
After he died we started hearing the strange sounds coming from the jungle at night.
The next day a machete came flying out of the trees into Jenn's forehead. Our collective horror only grew when we found the tripwire she'd sprung, lying limply across the path.
There was something else out there besides us. Other intelligent life. And it wanted us dead.
Armand fell through a pile of palm leaves into a pit of sharpened bamboo. Alastair stepped into a snare and flew into coils of barbed wire hidden in the underbrush.
Now there's only us three left, and as we sit around the fire I hear the sorrowful inhuman cries coming from all around.
They're coming now - John's face is a porous wasp's nest, thousands of them crawling on him and buzzing all around. The machete juts from Jenn's face as she lumbers toward us.
Armand is already rotting away, bamboo stakes still protruding from his torso and pierced eye. Alistair's bloody entrails are spilling out.
There are others too, I don't recognize: a man with a caved-in head, a woman with a giant jagged slice down her body, children missing their arms.
I knew there was something else out there. I don't know what kind of island this is we've been marooned on. But I know now even the dead get lonely.