He gagged as the sickly stench of burning hair washed over him.
"Why - why are you doing this?" he managed. He knew she heard him, but he didn't expect a reply - she was too far gone to recognize him as human.
Thurston Howell III struggled ineffectively with with his restraints, but, as with his previous attempts, the restraints held fast. He certainly wasn't at his strongest - the blood loss had taken its toll - and the man worth millions had never been as strong as, say, the Skipper. The late Skipper.
He sagged into his restraints, sure of what was coming, if unsure of exactly of how exactly how it would manifest. The Skipper bit it execution-style, but Mary Anne and Gilligan had both been dispatched by spear-point. He grimaced as he thought of his wife suffocating on the dozens of dollar bills shoved down her throat. He wished he could have stopped it. He wished, at least, he could have put her out of her misery.
But no, the mad woman continued her strange deeds. Burning the hair off her victims - the people they both had called friends for so many years - all the while muttering about skins and canoes and making jerky for the long voyage.
The rich man had his one solace; he'd held up and she wouldn't be getting her hands on his fortune. Sure, she'd dispatch him. Sure he had to watch the other five die, but his money was safe. His money was safe.
With those final thoughts, he passed, leaving Ginger the sole living human on the island.
She would take her own life when the mania subsided the next day.