Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
He wrinkles his nose at that last one. “What’s the problem then?”
“According to the waiver that both of us signed, the local snails carry rat lungworm,” I remind him pointedly.
“Right,” he says. “Which is why we’d boil them.”
“And you’re sure rat lungworm is not some sort of an extremophile germ that can survive a boiling?”
He purses his lips. “I’m pretty sure, but you have a point. We’ll wait until we’re really desperate.”
Fuck. “Maybe we should go back to you being the optimistic one. When you talk like that, I get the feeling we’re going to die here.”
“We won’t,” he says confidently. “I know a bit about survivalism, and I’ve given this some thought. There’s fish all around us. I can make a spear. Or a bow using the rubber band in my pants. Armed with those, I can try bowfishing or spearfishing—maybe even regular fishing if I manage to make a rod. The bow and spear will also allow me to take down that annoying bird—which I bet tastes like chicken. And if I’m feeling really brave, I can hit a gator on the head with this hammer.”
I gape at him. “That’s a lot of plans. Are you planning for us to grow old here, Robinson Crusoe style?”
Except with a lot more sex. Friday and Robinson Crusoe didn’t have sex, right? Relatedly, did Tom Hanks face-fuck the volleyball, Wilson, in Cast Away? He did draw a mouth on it, after all. I’ll need to look into this when—or if—I get access to the internet again.
Ashton smiles. “We’ll get out of here shortly. I just thought that coming up with multiple means of survival would calm you.”
“But don’t we still have a water problem?” I can’t help but ask. And I don’t mean just drinking it. If I don’t shower for two days, I may just die from griminess.
He gestures at the swamp. “We can boil that water if super desperate. But a better option might be to collect the rain water next time—and then boil that, just in case. If we’re still here when we finish the first water cooler bottle, we can put it outside and rig up a funnel into it to collect maximum water.”
Note to self: if it rains again, use that water to shower.
“Interesting.” Tension I didn’t even realize I had leaves my body. “I guess we really will survive.”
“And thrive—if we have to. Now, I was thinking we should take our phones and walk all over this island to see if we can get a signal.”
This is the best idea anyone has had since the invention of the vibrator, so I jump on it with enthusiasm. Sadly, we fail to locate any signal—even when Ashton climbs onto the roof of his cabin.
“Be careful,” I say sternly as he climbs down.
He chuckles. “I’m touched that you care.”
“If you break your leg, who will be spearfishing?” I grumble. “Or MacGyvering us a toaster out of a… toad.”
He looks thoughtful as he gets all the way down. “I know you were just kidding, but you just gave me an idea.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not eating toads. I’ll starve first. Or eat you.”
He laughs. “That’s not it. I just remembered that we’re in the Sunshine State, which means a solar cooker would be pretty practical.”
“A what?”
“It’s like a DIY oven,” he explains. “I think I can make one if I rip off some of that reflective material from the boat.”
“And it will cook?”
He nods. “In the heat, the temperature can reach three hundred degrees.”
“It’s official,” I say. “If we survive this, but there’s a zombie apocalypse after, I want to be with you.”
I expect him to make a “repopulate the Earth” joke, but he looks worriedly at the sun instead.
“We should hide,” he says. “Before we get overheated.”
We get into the cabin, and Ashton starts gathering our clothes.
“I’m going to hang them to dry,” he explains.
I nod.
He does as he said, then comes back and pours us each a glass of water.
“So… what now?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Usually I’d exercise, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea given the limited food and water situation, not to mention the lack of shower.”
Counterpoint: his exercising would have a lot of entertainment value for me. But I decide against telling him that.
“I guess we can just hang out and talk,” I say.
“Sure.” He takes a seat at the table. “What kind of music do you like?”
“To play or listen to?” I blurt, and instantly regret it.
“Play?” His eyebrow turns into a question mark.
With a sigh, I take a seat. “My instrument is the sousaphone. Or it was, at least. And my favorite piece that features it is The Muppet Show theme.”
I silently dare him to make jokes about me blowing. I heard them all back in high school.
Ashton cocks his head. “The sousaphone is like a tuba, right? One that wraps around your body?” For some unfathomable reason, he examines me with heat in his eyes.