Plum whirled to find the source of the scream. As she did, the sound changed, turning into a whoop of celebration.
A white man stepped out from behind one of the stunted palm trees onto the path behind them. He looked like he was in his late twenties or early thirties. It was hard to tell, with his spiked bleached platinum hair and mirrored aviator sunglasses. He was big and tall, burly like an ex-linebacker.
The man held out his phone, filming them. He was still screaming and whooping.
“AW, YEAH!” he yelled, tilting his phone from side to side. “KILLING IT, DUDES!”
The spiky-haired man messed with his phone, zooming in and out, as he continued screaming, like he’d seen a rock star or had just won the lottery. His voice sounded ragged from the shrieks that climbed ever higher as he kept yelling.
“Oh my God, you’re killing it, duuuuudes!”
There was something familiar about it. Even though Plum knew she’d never seen him before, even though she’d never stood on this path before, in front of the ruined villa on Little Esau.
Their small group, which had crossed the choppy ocean together, had been denied water, and then hiked up the dusty, twisting path in blazing heat, stood there, mouths agape, shell-shocked at the man’s continued shrieks at them.
They were not killing it, Plum thought. They had never been further from killing it. Shelley’s lacy tank top was slightly stained with her own stomach bile. Jude’s formerly lofty hair had deflated, looking sticky with sweat and languishing product. Plum didn’t want to think about what she herself looked like, and even still-somehow-spotless Marlowe looked wan.
There had never in the history of triumphs been a less triumphant group making a less triumphant entry.
And that’s when it clicked.
“Oh, God,” Plum said, as Cici looked like she was about to scream right back in the face of the man filming them. “The Killing it dude.” Plum flapped a weary hand at the man. She shook her head. This tier of internet entertainer was not exactly who she’d imagined attending Pyre Festival.
And it was less than auspicious that he was the first “influencer” she actually recognized.
He was more of an internet prankster than a celebrity, Plum thought. And to make matters worse, he had only one gimmick. One bit he was completely committed to.
“Oh yeah!” Jude nodded, a bright smile suddenly spreading across his face. Jude, at least, seemed excited to recognize somebody. Either that or his relentless positivity caused his showy enthusiasm.
Abruptly the man stopped filming and lowered his phone.
“Thanks, that was great,” he said, voice no longer raw, like a switch had been flipped.
“Y’all just standing there like a bunch of dummies,” the Killing it dude continued. “Priceless.”
“Don’t use that word!” Marlowe said, her eyes flashing in anger.
“What, priceless?” the Killing it dude asked. But his smirk told the story, that he knew exactly what word he’d used that was offensive.
“You do not have my permission to post that!” Shelley Moon’s eyes flashed.
“Don’t need it, we’re in a public place,” the man answered with blithe unconcern. He was messing with his phone, tapping away.
“I don’t give my consent! Everyone hear me?” Shelley said. “Let the record show.”
“Can’t have an expectation of privacy in a public place.” The Killing it dude was still smirking.
“But this is a private island,” Plum said. “Surely we can have an expectation of privacy on a private island?”
“Internet’s patchy out here.” The man sighed. Then he grinned. “But it’s going up on TikTok when I get back to the villa.”
Shelley let out a shriek of anger and stomped her foot. “You will be hearing from my lawyer!” It was the most lively she’d looked since getting off the boat.
“Okay, whatever,” the man answered. His unconcern spoke volumes about the many—no doubt many, many—times he’d been in this situation before. “I’m Sammy,” he said. “Sammy Ponder, but my friends call me Dude.”
“That makes sense.” Jude smiled in clear understanding. “Because you’re the Killing it, dude dude.”
Dude grinned and held out a fist.
Jude bumped it.
“You got it, dude!” Dude said.
“Dude!” Jude said happily, holding out his own fist for Dude to one-potato bump him back. Dude didn’t seem to notice, turning to the others.
“Don’t be sore,” he said to Shelley. “It’s just the internet. It’s how it is, you know.”
Shelley glared at him.
Jude dropped his fist, looking around like he hoped no one had noticed that he’d been left hanging.
“Let me carry that, huh?” Dude asked, pointing at Shelley’s suitcase.
“Here.” Cici took her bags from Jude and shoved them at Dude. Then she stalked forward like the cobblestone path was a runway and she was an angry model. “I need a drink.”
She walked away, her high ponytail swinging emphatically with each step.
For good measure, and because she had been scared at first and that had been unpleasant, and because she no doubt looked foolish in the video, staring at the screaming jerk like she’d been poleaxed, Plum also shoved her bag, Marlowe’s bag, and Sofia’s bag at Dude.
“Sure, sure,” he said. He picked up all the bags, placing several under each arm. He looked like an old-timey bellhop as he chased after Cici and Jude, now on the terrace ahead.
As a group, they walked up the crumbling steps of the villa. The main door hung open, almost looking like it was broken. As if someone had nearly torn it off its hinges, trying to get in.
Or get out.
They filed inside.