A Beast At Bay

[callensensei]

This is another fanfic based on "The Hunter," though with a very different tone from "All Through the Night." I dunno - there's just something about this bizarre but riveting episode that I need to get out of my system. I promise, though, most of the time I write Gilligan fanfic as comedy! Just not this time.

Some people were posting on the discussion board that they hate the climactic "tree scene" from this episode, and I agree completely. The subject matter and Denver and Calhoun's portrayals were far too serious to try to switch gears to comedy that late in the story. I wonder what happened behind the scenes. Was there another ending? Did Sherwood Schwartz or director Leslie Goodwins veto it? Or did the writers just lose their nerve?

This story is a little AU speculation on what might have happened if the episode had kept its dark, sinister tone all the way through. Now don't worry: no character deaths ahead! At least, nobody we love...heh, heh...

A Beast at Bay

By Callensensei

"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships--lascars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels--a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."

"But they are men," said Rainsford hotly.

"Precisely," said the general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous." - Richard Connell, “The Most Dangerous Game”

*******************

“Well, well, my friend. So the most challenging game proves fallible after all. I’ll give you credit though: you certainly gave me a run for my money. Would you believe the twenty-four hours is nearly up? You nearly won, Gilligan. Nearly.”

Champion big game hunter Jonathan Kinkaid stood on a grassy knoll that overlooked a broad clearing of thick sand. He looked across to the edge of the jungle where Gilligan lay on the ground, clutching his thigh. Ribbons of blood as red as Gilligan’s shirt dribbled between the young sailor’s fingers. Gilligan grimaced in pain, powerless to move.

The sun beat down, white and merciless, as Kinkaid dragged his sleeve across his brow and tossed his Australian bush hat on the ground. Grinning, he casually unslung his canteen from around his neck and removed the cap. “You know, I can’t believe you were foolish enough to let me get so close to you, especially after you’d managed to stay ahead of me all night. But then again, you probably haven’t read the book, have you? Too bad. Might have given you one or two ideas.”

“Book?” Gilligan gasped, the cold sweat of fear dripping into his eyes.

“Short story, actually. The Most Dangerous Game. Richard Connell was the writer’s name, if I recall. I read it as a boy. Gave me my first taste for hunting.” Kinkaid took a long pull at the cool water. “Ahh. The climactic scene was a little bit more dramatic than this, though. When the general – the hunter – confronts Rainsford, his prey, for the last time, Rainsford warns, ‘but I am still a beast at bay,’ and he proves to be a pretty dangerous fellow after all. But that’s hardly a description of you, is it, Gilligan?” He replaced the cap and set the canteen down on the grass. “Of course, the Skipper only said you were fast, not cunning. Ah well. Can’t have everything.”

The jungle had gone deathly quiet. Gilligan lay panting heavily, his burning blue eyes fixed on the hunter. It was an act of sheer will not to look at the sand.

Jonathan Kinkaid cocked his Winchester and slowly lifted it, lining up the sight. He paused a moment, grinning in triumph, while Gilligan shut his eyes, praying.

“Bang!”

Gilligan’s eyes snapped open to see Kinkaid laughing. It was the second time he had played the joke of merely shouting the word bang.

“Oh, don’t worry, my friend! I wouldn’t deliver the coup de grace from all the way over here! Not that I couldn’t hit you, of course; I could do it at ten times this distance. But this is the crowning moment of my hunting career, so you’ll forgive me for wanting to be a little closer to the action.”

Gilligan’s heart was pounding so hard he feared he would faint. He watched Kinkaid intently, almost forgetting the pain in his leg. Just one more step…

Kinkaid leapt lightly off the knoll, landing about six feet into the patch of sand. And at once there was a great, sucking, monstrous slurp as he sank past his knees and continued to sink, the ground beneath him giving way like—

“Quicksand! It’s quicksand!” Instinctively Kinkaid struggled to lift his feet, but but the mire held him in a ravenous grip. He looked around at the foliage. “Got to shoot down a vine!”

“Don’t bother,” came a low, pain-wracked voice from the edge of the jungle. Kinkaid looked up to see Gilligan leaning back against a rock, weak and gasping with relief. “There’s none over there.”

“How do you know?”

“I took them.”

“You what?” Kinkaid gaped at the first mate for a few moments, struggling to understand. Then it hit him. “Let me get this straight. This is a trap? You actually planned this?”

Gilligan groaned, clutching his wounded leg. “I didn’t plan this! But I do know that story. I saw the movie.”

Kinkaid blinked at him.

“Remember the pit where the general nearly fell in?”

The look in Kinkaid’s ice blue eyes slowly turned from incredulity to admiration. He began to laugh in delight. “Why, you fiend. You cunning little fiend! Well, well. I take my hat off to you, Gilligan! You’ve got more brains than I gave you credit for!” The hunter had sunk in up to his hips by now, the undulating sand as wet and yielding as oatmeal. And still the ooze beneath his feet gave way. Kinkaid flashed his white teeth in that familiar feral smile. “But let’s be honest: we both know you’re no killer, Gilligan--you haven’t got what it takes. Go on. Throw me a vine.”

Gilligan did not move, except to glare warily at the Winchester. “Oh!” chuckled Kinkaid, looking down at his rifle as though he’d forgotten it was there. He tossed the rifle ahead of him where it hit the sand with a quiver and swiftly vanished. “There, you see, Gilligan? I can’t hurt you anymore. Go on, get the vine.”

“You’re right, Mr. Kinkaid. I’m no killer. I don’t even hunt animals! I only wanted to make you throw the gun away.”

The mire was sucking at the hunter’s chest now. “That’s nice,” said Kinkaid. “We’ll get you a spot on Wild Kingdom. Just get the vine!”

Gilligan looked up at a leafy vine hanging high above his head, then back at the hunter. “Mr. Kinkaid…I can’t move.”

Kinkaid was thunderstruck. He stared at the blood on Gilligan’s leg and hand and felt his own blood run cold. “Oh…my…God. Gilligan – Gilligan, for God’s sake, don’t just lie there! Get up! You’ve got to try! Gilligan! Gilligan, for God’s sake, get me the vine!”

The genuine terror in that voice galvanized Gilligan into action. Unthinking, he sprang up and tried to stand on his wounded leg. “Aahh!” Almost at once it buckled out from under him and he slumped to the ground, nearly fainting from the pain.

Kinkaid stared in horror, the hungry sand lapping at his throat. His arms were raised, high and helpless. “Oh my God! Gilligan! Get up! Gilligan! Somebody! Help me!”

The birds were darting out of the trees now and the monkeys on the shaking branches were gibbering with fear. Gilligan buried his head in his arms and shut his eyes tight, but couldn’t block out the screams. On they went, fading to frantic, liquid gurgles, until finally there was no voice at all. Then he heard a strange new sound: the mechanical buzz of an alarm.

Slowly Gilligan raised his head and looked out across the quicksand to where a lone, desperate hand clawed at the air. On the wrist the huge Bulova watch gleamed in the sunlight. Gilligan remembered Kinkaid setting that alarm exactly twenty-four hours earlier. Then the hand slipped beneath the surface, and all was silent. “Game over,” Gilligan whispered.

He began to shiver uncontrollably. This time, the darkness that hid Gilligan’s sight was merciful unconsciousness.

*******************

When he awoke, Gilligan saw the sapphire blue sky above and the soaring trunks and far off underside of the great waving tufts of the palm trees. Brightly coloured birds flitted high above, twittering softly, while the monkeys leapt nimbly from height to impossible height. Slowly Gilligan became aware of other things: the soft moss that pillowed his head, a cool, damp cloth on his forehead, the tangy scent of wood smoke and a dull throbbing ache in his thigh. He shifted and groaned.

“Gilligan, little buddy! Thank God!”

It was the voice Gilligan had prayed to hear once more. He looked up and there bending over him, with pale face and red-rimmed eyes, was the Skipper.

“Don’t try to speak, Gilligan! Just lie still now. You’re in shock.” He turned and looked somewhere out of Gilligan’s field of vision. “Professor! Professor, he’s coming ‘round!” Turning back to Gilligan, he squeezed his first mate’s hand in reassurance. “The Professor managed to get the bullet out. He says you’ve been real lucky, little buddy. You’re going to be all right.”

The Professor’s face moved into view above him. “Gilligan, thank heaven!”

“Is everybody safe?” Gilligan whispered.

“Everyone’s fine! Just fine. You mustn’t worry yourself.”

“But what happened?”

"Later, Gilligan."

"I want to know."

The Professor shook his head at the first mate's stubbornness, but saw that he was not to be denied. “Well, we’re not exactly sure ourselves. The six of us managed to escape from the cave where Ramoo was guarding us and tied him up, but when we went back to check on him, he was gone! Then a little while ago we saw the helicopter taking off and saw him in it, just before we found you. But he was alone.” The Professor looked thoughtful. “Perhaps he finally realized that a man as crazy as Kinkaid couldn’t ever be trusted.”

Gilligan felt the Skipper’s hand gently lift his head up, and tasted cool water. He gulped it down gratefully until he recognized its source, and coughed and sputtered. “Skipper,” he whispered. “That canteen. It’s Kinkaid’s!”

The Skipper nodded. “We know. We found it next to his hat on that knoll over there just before we looked across and….” His voice caught and he turned sharply away, gripping Gilligan’s hand.

The Professor cut in gently, “…and saw you. The Skipper had a…bad moment or two then, Gilligan. Please, don’t ever do that to us again.”

The Skipper still hadn’t turned around. Gilligan felt his grip tighten until it was almost painful. “I tell you, if Kinkaid had come along just then, gun or no gun, I’d have—“

“But where is Kinkaid?” The Professor cut in again, casting a wary eye at the trees. “It’s all too terribly obvious he and his gun were here. But – forgive me, Gilligan – why didn’t he finish the job? What could have happened to him?”

Gilligan’s head shifted towards the quicksand. His hand flicked up briefly, pointing.

It took the Skipper and the Professor a moment to understand him. When they did, they stared at the quicksand in disbelief. The Professor whistled softly. “So the great hunter has hunted his first and last human victim! Well, however awful his fate, it was no more than he deserved. I wouldn’t lose much sleep over him if I were you, Gilligan. He brought this on himself. I’d say the human part of Jonathan Kinkaid died a long time ago.”

The Skipper offered Gilligan more water from the canteen but the young sailor shook his head and shut his lips tight. The Skipper frowned. “Gilligan…”

Gilligan shook his head again. “No. Please, Skipper.”

With a sigh, the Skipper shrugged and simply used the canteen to wet the cloth he was using as a cold compress. “The Professor’s going back to camp to get a stretcher and some blankets. I’m going to stay here with you. Now you hang in there, little buddy—that’s an order.”

Gilligan’s eyes softened at the tremor in the big man’s voice. “Aye aye, Skipper.”

“Good man.”

The Professor did one last check of the banana leaf bandage and bamboo splints on Gilligan’s leg. “Your leg’s going to ache for awhile, Gilligan. We had to sterilize my knife in the fire. I’ll make you some painkiller out of willow bark when we get back to camp. Now you keep that leg elevated, Skipper, and keep the fire going to keep him warm. I’ll be back right away, fellows,” and he slipped off into the jungle.

Gilligan lay breathing heavily, deeply grateful for the cool cloth and the reassuring pressure of the Skipper’s hand on his brow. After a few moments, he spoke. “Skipper, did you ever read a story about a hunter?”

“Shhh. Just rest, little buddy.”

But Gilligan pressed on. “They made it into a movie. I saw it when I was a boy. Made me hate hunting.”

The Skipper’s lips set as he looked up at the quicksand. “You’re not the only one. That maniac. Boy, I’ll say he got what he deserved! Doing this to one of the sweetest, kindest little guys in the whole world!”

“I am still a beast at bay,” Gilligan whispered, before his eyes closed in troubled sleep.

Finis

[jonnycarnahan]

Man I could use some Professor angst and hurt/comfort now that I've read this. Well done.

[mrs.gingerhinkley]

Originally Posted by jonnycarnahan

Man I could use some Professor angst and hurt/comfort now that I've read this. Well done.

lol, always!!


Great story!! You really showed many sides of Gilligan, and revealed just how scary Kinkaid was. Once again, wonderful to see the castaways so caring for Gilligan. Can't wait to read more from you!

[wilson001]

Awesome story! Thanks for sharing.