I tried to yell at them, but that backfired. I was choking on the sand. They laughed at my coughing and gagging groans; I don't blame them. If I was them, I would've laughed too. But I wasn't them, and I was pissed, and time was ticking.

I managed to get one word out before the three of us disappeared into the jungle and from the competition. What the hell was going on?

"Message".

I grumble in a low whisper. The one not holding my legs sadistically smiled down at me with those blinding bleach-white teeth and mockingly asked.

"What was that? You want us to let you go?"

His twin stops in his tracks, momentarily stops dragging me, but still holds his gorilla grip around my ankles. He shoots his brother a hazel-eyed glare and snaps,

"Clay, will you cut that out? We don't have time for you to play fucking mind games right now."

Clay pouts like a disappointed spoiled brat. His brother starts to drag me again, and the hot sand scorches my skin. I open my eyes to see the blue horizon.

Water. I need water, and it's so close yet so far away. I need them to hear me. I try again. Nothing comes out except a little gurgle of hot sand.

Clay shuts me up with a swift kick of his leather loafer to the face. Accompanied by a gust of sharp sand pellets.

My nostrils fill with a familiar stench, a stench that trickles its way into my mouth, and then I taste it. The metallic taste of my own blood.

I was already ticked off, but now I was seeing red.

Get it, seeing red because of blood. You know what I mean. I hocked the biggest loogie and created a Jackson Pollock on the beach.

"Message,"

I say a little louder,

The one pulling my limbs from my hip sockets stops again, this time for good. I have their attention.

"I know what the message says, the message in the puzzle."

Clay let out a hysterical roar, bending over to slap his bare knee.

In between wheezing breaths, he managed to counter,

"Oh yeah? Does it say that you're full of shit?"

He wasn't wrong, but I needed to think of something good and fast. Clay lifted up his foot to strike again, but his brother cut in

"Wait, let her talk. She might know something."

My prayers were being answered.

"You're not being serious."

He releases my ankles, my legs crash into the ground, and he walks closer to my toes. He's towering over me, looking down at my jelly body.

He pulls out a switchblade from his pocket, warning me against attempting to escape, which is pointless.

I'd need at least five more minutes of laying here to regain enough strength to just sit up, let alone make a run for it.

"Matt"

Clay protests, but Matt doesn't break his eye contact with me.

"What does the message say?"

Clay runs over to his brother and shoves him to the ground. The switchblade falls out of his hands. It's within an arm's reach of me, but it's too risky.

Matt wraps his arms around Clay's legs and pulls him beside him. While they are in the middle of their sibling wrestling match, After having some time to recharge, I seize my opportunity to swipe the switchblade.

The two buffoons are too busy giving each other noogies to notice me stand and come up behind them.

I find a space gap between their roughhousing and hold the knife against Matt's throat. But my message is for Clay. Since he likes mind games.

I whisper into Matt's ear loud enough for Clay to hear me.

"The message says your time is up; you better run. Or I slit his fucking throat."

And just like that, Clay booked it for Jetski.