Sooner or later, everyone tries their hand at a reworking of 'The Hunter.' This is mine. The title is taken from a line in the poem Requiem by R. L. Stevenson: Home is the sailor, home from the sea / And the hunter, home from the hill.

OoOoOoOo

Bedtime. Gilligan pulled out his handkerchief, folded it neatly, and gagged himself with it before climbing into his hammock. The Skipper pretended not to notice. It was a compromise. After the third time he had managed to wake up, not only his bunkmate, but the other five castaways because he didn't seem to be able to get through a night without repeatedly screaming himself hoarse in the grip of apparently continuous bad dreams, he had announced that he was going to bunk down in his cave so that at least the others could get a full night's sleep once in a while.

The Skipper had had something to say about that, but even after some yelling, literally sticking a sock in it was the best solution any of them could come up with. It was a true compromise, in that it left everybody unsatisfied and the real problem not really solved, but several weeks on, it was still the best they had.

OoOoOoOo

"You mean… you mean it's… ?" Gilligan's eyes looked like saucers, and his voice failed him entirely.

Kinkaid smiled as Ramoo grabbed the sailor by the arm. "Let's make this interesting, shall we?" He looked around, meeting each pair of eyes, variously angry, frightened, or horrified. "A bit of added incentive, as it were. If he can elude me for twenty-four hours, if he can survive that long, you win. I'll call off the hunt, and I'll leave, and you'll never have to worry about me again. If I win… I'll see to it that you're rescued," he said, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'll radio the Coast Guard, and the six of you will be sipping cocktails in Honolulu by nightfall."

Kinkaid glanced at Gilligan out of the corner of his eye as he said that; he hadn't thought the man could get any paler, but he did. Good.

"You can't be—that's my little buddy," the Skipper blustered. "I'd rather stay on this island until doomsday!"

"I want to get back to civilization as much as anybody," Mr. Howell added. "But not at that price! Kinkaid, this is madness!"

"Perhaps," Kinkaid agreed. "But as the one with the gun, to say nothing of the radio tubes, I think that I get to decide what's mad and what isn't. My hunt, and my rules. Good night." He touched a hand to the brim of his hat in ironic courtesy, and the three of them vanished into the jungle.

The Professor took a deep breath. "Gilligan knows every inch of this island," he said, reassuring himself as much as any of the others. "He's fast, he's young and agile, he knows any number of places to hide… Kinkaid won't be able to find him, let alone catch him."

"That's if he even tries to escape," the Skipper muttered. "You heard what Kinkaid said—if he gets Gilligan, he'll make sure that the rest of us are rescued. I wouldn't put it past him to…" he trailed off.

Mary Ann gasped. "He wouldn't!"

Nobody said anything for a long moment. Finally, Mr. Howell, remembering a broken straw in the rain, said, "Oh, my dear girl… have you met Gilligan?"

She shook her head, frantic. "He couldn't! Even if it did help us get rescued. He couldn't just… just let that awful man…"

The Skipper clenched his fists. "I know my little buddy. He wouldn't think twice."

"Of course he wouldn't. This is Gilligan we're talking about," Ginger said. "He has a hard enough time thinking once." Her eyes narrowed. "Besides. He got us all stranded here; he can get us out."

Five horrified stares didn't faze her in the least; Ginger was a professional. Calmly, cool and sweet as ice cream, she met their eyes. "There. We were all thinking it and we were all ashamed of ourselves. Now we can forget it and concentrate on what's important—what we can do to help. There has to be a way we can stop Kinkaid before he hurts anyone."

OoOoOoOo

Gilligan looked at the remains of the steak Kinkaid had insisted he eat. He'd never given much thought to how steak was made before, and, half-sick, he hoped that the cows weren't as frightened as he was. "Look, Kinkaid," he said, and was proud that his voice didn't shake. "I know I can't win here. If you shoot me, I'm dead, and if you don't shoot me my friends don't get rescued. And even if you do get me, you can always say I wasn't a good enough hunt, and then I'm dead and my friends still don't get rescued."

"You're right," Kinkaid said. "You're smarter than you look. Of course, you'd almost have to be."

Insults? Really? Gilligan, who heard worse, on a regular basis, from people whose opinions he actually cared about, ignored that. "So what I want to know is—how good is good enough? What do I have to do to make sure you get my friends rescued?"

"And the brief flicker of intelligence fades," Kinkaid sighed. "So selfless. Stupid, but selfless. Gilligan, you don't honestly think I could let any of them get back to civilization, do you? Why, they'd tell the authorities about our little game, and that would be most inconvenient. No, after I hunt you down, I think my next quarry will be your Professor. Now that I think about it, all that chess could make for some interesting tactics, if he can be persuaded to use his legs instead of his mouth."

Gilligan didn't say anything.

"Pretty little Mary Ann after that, I think. She looks as though she could lead a man on a pleasant chase. As for the others… well, Ginger next, but I think I'll keep her around for a few days first. The other three wouldn't be of much use for anything but target practice, but perhaps I'll keep one of them as a hostage against Ginger's good behavior. Any thoughts as to which one I should pick?" He chuckled. "As if I needed to ask?"

"…You're evil," Gilligan said. "I thought you were just crazy, but you're not. You're evil!"

Kinkaid shrugged. "I'm a hunter. It's the way of the world, Gilligan, and always has been. There are the hunters, and there are the prey, and words like good and evil don't really apply. Now sit down. Save some of that energy for tomorrow."

Mr. Howell knocked at the door, and, as usual, tried to salvage the situation with the application of a generous bribe. And as usual, he was unsuccessful, but not before offering amounts Gilligan could scarcely imagine and knew that he was not really worth.

Ginger was next, charm turned up to eleven, and fared no better. If Gilligan hadn't gulped down the drugged pineapple juice Kinkaid had pushed aside, things might have been different, but he did and they weren't, and she was in tears as she ran back to the relative safety of her hut, trying to scrub the memory of his fingers from her skin.

"How many more of these delightful visits do you think we can expect, Ramoo?" Kinkaid rolled his eyes as the door shut behind her. Ramoo only grunted. "And what more can they offer? I'm not going to change my mind."

"I didn't think you would," said the Professor, entering the hut without bothering to knock.

"Ah, yes. Right on time," Kinkaid said dryly. "And speaking of time, you're wasting yours. I came here for a hunt, and I won't be leaving without one."

"I understand that," the Professor said, just as dryly. "Kinkaid, let's put our cards on the table, shall we? I'm a scientist. Logic and reason hold far more sway over me than mere sentiment." He crossed the room, sat nonchalantly down. He glanced at Gilligan, deeply asleep, but breathing evenly. The dosage had been correct, anyway. At least there was that. "And in addition, I'm a chess player. Surely you're aware that the pawn sacrifice is one of the most elementary of stratagems?"

Kinkaid raised an eyebrow. "Go on," was all he said.

"Taking all available facts into consideration, the plain truth of the matter is that we need your help to get off this godforsaken island, and the price of your help is Gilligan. I'm perfectly well aware that attempting to reason you out of it would be fruitless, and I'm not going to try." He shrugged. "Logically, it seems that six lives can be saved at the cost of one. I'm as sorry for the boy as anyone else, but it's a matter of simple mathematics." Reaching into his pocket, the Professor pulled out a sheet of paper upon which he had sketched a map of the island.

"Now, our camp is here," he said, indicating the spot. Obligingly, Kinkaid leaned in for a closer look. "And here's the lagoon, where you landed. There isn't a great deal of cover there, but he might try to get at the helicopter. But I think it's most likely he'll make for the southeast corner of the island." He pointed. "It's quite overgrown, and there are several caves where he might try to hide. I've marked their approximate location, but of course this isn't drawn to scale."

"I see, Professor," Kinkaid said. "And you're telling me this… why, exactly?"

"I told you," he said. "I'm a chess player, and if one learns anything from chess, it's that long-term strategizing is essential. I want to get off this island. So far as I'm concerned, six lives outweigh one, particularly when one of the six is me. If helping you plan your little hunt is the only means to that end, then it would be foolhardy of me to do otherwise."

"Well put, Professor," Kinkaid said, and picked up the map. "And I appreciate your candor. Hmm. The southeast corner, you say? I'll certainly have to keep that in mind."

The Professor's heart skipped a thrilled beat, but Kinkaid wasn't done. "Of course, the fact that the entire area is honeycombed with patches of quicksand is a bit of a drawback, wouldn't you agree?" He smiled. "Come now; you don't really think I'd set off on a hunt without scouting the terrain, do you? Professor, just how stupid do you think I am?" He threw the paper aside, and pulled the Professor to his feet and to the doorstep. "I must applaud your ingenuity, though. Your little performance was subtler, and far more interesting, than either of your comrades'. Good night, Professor. Go to sleep. And tell the Skipper to keep whatever show he was planning to himself, or I'll put a bullet in Gilligan's brain here and now and choose a different quarry tomorrow."

Numbly, the Professor allowed himself to be shoved out the door. Back at camp, the others were waiting for him; he shook his head slightly and looked away. He didn't want to see the Skipper's face as he relayed the message.

OoOoOoOo

Morning came, and for one beautiful moment Gilligan thought that, just maybe, Kinkaid and his hunt had been another one of the cartoonish nightmares he had so often.

"Good morning," Kinkaid said smoothly, putting paid to that little hope. "Care to join me for some breakfast? We'll both need the energy."

It really wasn't fair that his first chance at a plate of bacon and non-turtle eggs in three years was under these circumstances, he thought, eating mechanically. It tasted like cardboard, but Kinkaid was right. He would need the energy.

"Cheer up, Gilligan," Kinkaid said. "You have a fifty-fifty chance."

"I do? Fifty-fifty?"

"Of course! Whether you get it in the heart… or between the eyes." Kinkaid smiled. "Did you have a preference as to which?"

Gilligan clenched his jaw. "I'm not afraid of you, Kinkaid," he said.

"Yes, you are."

"Yes, I am," he admitted. "And I don't care what you do to me."

"Yes, you do."

"Yes, I do. But I'm not gonna let you hurt my friends," he said. "How about this—you pick out a different island. I'll come with you, and you can hunt me there. One island is pretty much like any other, right? What's the difference? Just leave my friends alone."

Kinkaid thought about that for a moment. "Do you really think that I'm going to agree to any such thing? Or that I'd keep my word to leave the others alone, even if I did?"

Gilligan slumped. "… Not really."

"Good. Finish your breakfast, and leave the heroic speeches for the movies." He took a bite of bacon himself, chewed and swallowed. "Your compatriots aren't quite as noble, I'm afraid. You fell asleep before Ginger was quite finished showing me how friendly she could be, and you missed the Professor entirely."

"The Professor?" Gilligan asked, before he could stop himself.

Kinkaid smiled smugly. "Oh, indeed, the Professor. He was here. He was even kind enough to draw this little map for me," he said, showing it off. Gilligan studied it. "What was the phrase he used? Ah, yes. Six lives saved outweighed one sacrificed, particularly when one of the six in question was his. But he did say that he was as sorry for you as anyone else, if it's any comfort."

He laughed at Gilligan's grim expression. "You see? There are predators and prey, my lad, and nothing can change that. Deep down, we've all got a million years of history whispering our names."