by Chris Hechtl
Survival
Before I wrote Bootstrap Colony, I blocked out a couple survival stories. Some I hung onto; others I lost. This story was written after watching a caveman survival show on the Discovery Science Channel. (Where a group of people try to survive as cavemen.) Not Lost. LOL
Even after I wrote Bootstrap, the idea of a group transported stuck with me (i.e., Princess Rescue Inc.). Some of the other stories seem good, some were … oof. I considered turning this one into a PRI or BC story but it is too … basic and Terran (for the flora and fauna) for me to do that, so I left it as is. It is also very similar to the short story I wrote in Multiverse 1 for Bootstrap Colony. (You know the one, Survival of the Fittest.) Hopefully this story falls somewhere in between good and bad as usual. ;)
14-female, 12-male survivors.
1 lawyer
1 paralegal, female, Mary Anne
1 stewardess, female, Terri “Ginger” Hart, red hair.
1 copilot, female, Gisel
1 video gamer, male, Toshi Navi
1 school nurse, female, Hayden Mclain
1 teacher, female, Helen Johnson—hooks up with Dwayne, friend of Hayden.
1 male, Alaskan state trooper, retired Army, skipper (has a peaked hat, pot belly), Dwayne Bushnell,
2 secretaries, female, Jenise and Sarah
1 stockbroker, male, Sherman Liverpool, mid 40s.
1 construction and then postal worker, male, Miguel
1 aide, female, Lucile Potter
1 intern doctor, female, Florence “Doc” Hernandon
1 waitress, female, Lori
1 short-order cook, male, Jim
1 natural gas man, male, Seth
1 truck driver, male, Bill
1 survivor/hunter, male, professor, Bret Drummon
1 bank manager, female, Pamila Fruitkin (Missus Howell)—girlfriend of Sherman
1 gas station attendant, male, Allen Sayne—a Gilligan look alike (thin, clumsy, black hair, red shirt)
1 cosmetologist (hair dresser), female, Tanya—voluptuous, easy-going woman
2 paper pushers, 1 female/1 male, Flo who worked in insurance and the male Wayne worked at car dealership
1 computer repair man, male, Jethro
1 store clerk turned assistant manager, male, Tobias Jenkins
One moment they had been on their way to a private island singles retreat on a chartered flight, and the next thing they knew things got crazy. Bret remembered turbulence, a flash, and dizziness and then waking to a lot of jolting and then the rushing in of water in the darkness. “The plane is sinking!”
There was a mad scramble to get out as the plane kept sinking lower. People rushed to the rear of the plane away from the water. When the emergency exit opened, it was like a breath of fresh air. Light spilled into the cabin as did more water.
Bret Drummon stayed back with a few of the others to help people escape. He could swim; as long as he kept his head, he knew he'd be okay. He heard some yelling and turned to the pilot's compartment. “There is someone inside! Help me get it open!”
“This water is fffffreezing!” a woman chattered. The stewardess brushed aside dangling air masks to help a man up to his arm pits in water get out.
“Hey! This is fresh water!” a voice said after gargling some water. “We're not in the ocean.”
“Well, halleluiah,” a guy said in disgust. He was clutching at his head. He pushed past Bret who was struggling with a woman's seatbelt. He dived under to get it unlatched as she fought to keep her head above water and to keep from panicking. He got it detached and then tried to surface but she pushed him down in the mad scramble to get out of the plane.
“There is land!” someone called from outside the plane.
“Help! Help me!” a woman said. A guy nearby ignored her to get at his luggage. A cold-faced male pushed past the selfish idiot to get to the woman. “I think my foot is stuck!” she said.
Before Bret could get there, the guy had reached down, feeling with his hands and then he dived under. He came up, and the woman was free. She thanked him quietly as she moved out.
“Get outside. Get everyone outside,” he said, still trying to make his way to the cockpit and the people trying to get into it. The plane started to sink more, tipping downward until they were on a slope with the cockpit deeper.
“They are under water!”
“Try the door again!” the guy said. “I'm Dwayne by the way,” he said to Bret as Bret waded in beside him. “Trooper Dwayne,” he said.
“Glad to meet you. Bret. Now ….”
“I think it's locked from the inside or the door is warped or something. I'm a computer repair geek, not a fucking mechanic!” the guy who had been tugging at the door said. It was nearly completely submerged which bode ill for the crew inside.
“What was that woman trapped on? Could we use it as a crowbar?”
“It was a body,” Dwayne said. Bret stiffened then grimaced. “You going to help or not?” Dwayne asked. “We need leverage,” he said.
“A breaker bar. Find something long and thin …,” Bret said just as the door clicked and the repair guy gasped.
“It's open!” he said.
“The water pressure must have been keeping it shut or something,” Dwayne said, pulling it open with the repair guy. “We'll hold it open.”
“Right,” Bret said, gasping. He took a deep breath then dropped under the water and swam in. He found a woman near the door and pulled her out. She was tangled in the seat, but he fought her clear and then out of the cabin.
When he got her on the other side, it was even deeper; the water level was near the ceiling. The others were treading water. He got the woman up so her head was above water, then put her in the crook of his arm.
“She's not breathing,” Dwayne said. “She's got a nasty knot on her temple to go with that head wound.” He felt at her neck with two fingers then nodded. “I've got a pulse though.”
“Here, get her out,” Bret said.
“Where are you going?” Dwayne asked as he took the girl.
“The pilot is still in there,” Bret said.
“I can't hold the door for long,” the repairman warned, struggling with it.
“Go!” Bret urged as he took a breath and dove.
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Bret surfaced outside the plane. He swam to shore and then struggled to get out. He felt like he'd run a marathon.
“Here is another one!” a guy said. He splashed into the water and then helped the handyman out. “Dude, you're heavy,” he said.
“It's all muscle,” Bret coughed, struggling to get to his feet. More hands were there.
“I thought we'd lost you too,” a familiar voice said. He looked up blearily to see the computer geek. They got him to his feet and then supported him as he got his strength back. When they got far enough up the shore, the trio collapsed near the group.
“The pilot?”
“Dead,” Bret said.
“You're sure?”
“It wasn't pretty,” the handyman said and then coughed. A woman with a stethoscope came by and had him sit up. She checked him over. “Thanks, Doc,” he said.
“You're okay. Just rest a bit,” she said. He nodded. She patted his arm and then moved on. He watched her go. She had a nice ass and a soft voice.
“Fuck,” the geek said, flaking out. “What the hell happened?”
“Ask her,” the other guy said, indicating the woman Bret had dragged from the cockpit. Bret looked over to see her coughing but on her side and moving weakly. “She's alive.”
“A few of us aren't,” the geek said. “I'm Jethro by the way.” He pointed to the battered name tag taped to his shirt. “I guess something broke,” he said looking back at the plane.
Bret followed his gaze and then shook his head. The tail of the plane was near the shore, but the rest of it was in the water. The fuselage was under water. The right wing was up about two feet above water with the wingtip thing sticking up. Water lapped
the shore. He looked around, eyes tracing the shoreline. He could see trees and rocks, shrubs … some snow. That was odd. He started to shiver.
“God, we've got to get warm,” Jethro said.
“Adrenalin is starting to wear off. Get out of the wet clothes and dry off,” another familiar voice said. They turned to see the trooper stripping his shirt off and wringing it out.
“We're not where we're supposed to be,” Bret said. He took his own shirt off and wrung it out, then his undershirt off and wrung that out too.
“Definitely,” Dwayne said. He paused to look around. “There are thirty of us, but I don't think a couple are going to survive without help for long,” he said.
“We're on a lake. But I don't see any houses around,” a guy said wandering around. He stumbled a bit, holding his cell phone out in front of him. “No signal.”
“Fuck,” Jethro swore, pulling his own phone out. He grimaced at the cracked screen but hit the on button. It booted so he sighed. But the familiar screen changed to one that said no network detected. “Okay, what gives?”
“I don't know.”
“I've seen this in areas near trees and high buildings. If we get to clearing, maybe we'll get a signal? Is anyone's GPS working?” Dwayne asked.
“Not a damned thing,” someone said from across the group, clearly frustrated. Bret saw a couple people had blankets. He wondered how they had gotten them. He turned to see someone splashing in the water. The Hispanic guy was using a stick to prod pieces of debris closer to someone else to catch and fish out. Bret nodded in approval.
“The pilot?” Dwayne asked, searching Bret's eyes.
“Dead. Bad,” Bret said.
“Damn,” the trooper said, then puffed his cheeks in and out a few times. He shivered a bit, then used his hands to brush off as much water out of his hair and body as he could. “Damn,” he muttered again.
“Gilligan's Island this isn't,” a guy quipped, shaking his head. They turned to him. “What, three-hour tour? A pleasure cruise? Sound familiar?”
Dwayne snorted and looked away.
“He's right,” a guy said. “Tobias Jenkins,” he said waving a hand. He wrung his clothes out. “Damn it's freezing. But I noticed some of us look a bit like well ….”
“The cast of a famous comedy show,” Jethro finished. He shook his head and pointed to a gangly guy in a red shirt. “He'd make a good Gilligan,” he joked just as the guy tripped over his own feet. They snorted in unison.
“We've got to find something to get warm quick,” Dwayne said, moving off.
Bret nodded as he studied the group and did his best to dry himself off. Sand and dirt crept into his clothes but all he cared about was warmth for the moment. Some of his fellow survivors were dressed in Hawaiian shirts or in business suits, not really appropriate for the weather. A few had polo shirts on. Some of the ladies were in skirts or dresses. He felt sorry for them. They were huddled together chattering and rubbing their arms, trying to get as much sun as possible. He'd liked the looks of a few of the ladies; they had nice legs.
It seemed that the survivors were evenly split between blue and white collar workers and those with higher education and those with hands-on vocational certificates Bret judged. Many of the passengers and crew were traumatized by the crash. Several people had been injured, and many were confused. The doc and a woman were doing triage on them, doing their best to stabilize them and make them as comfortable as possible. Bret realized that those with training were trying to establish order. The demand to know what had happened hadn't gotten anywhere; no one knew. The copilot, Gisel, just waved off any questions. She didn't know either.
Bret frowned and tried to search his own memory as Tobias and Jethro exchanged what they knew beside him. From the sound of it, everyone had passed out around the same time and had woken up on the plane with its nose half sunk into the lake. They all knew the rest. He turned and looked at the way the plane had come in. He whistled softly, getting their attention. They turned and saw the tree tops the plane had snapped in its landing onto the shore. “We're lucky the plane didn't snag and flip on us,” Bret said, shaking his head.
“Yeah, but most of the luggage is in the bottom of the plane. We can't get to a lot of our clothes,” Jethro said, rubbing his arms. “And still no damned cell phone reception,” he grumbled, looking at his phone. “I wish I'd gotten the portable heater instead of the mini solar panel,” he said, pulling it out and plugging it in. “Maybe if it's fully charged it'll get a signal? Even a weak one?”
“Let's hope so,” Bret said doubtfully.
“I still can't believe there is no one around!” a woman said, looking around. “I mean, you'd think a fisherman or someone would have taken notice!”
“Give it time,” a guy said.
“Someone is so getting sued over this,” the woman chattered.
The stewardess and copilot, Gisel, tried to keep order, but the copilot had a head wound and needed to rest. Their only doctor and nurse kept her and the other wounded from moving. Once he was able, handyman Bret stripped to his knickers and then went back into the water. He dove into the wreck and raided the wreck for food and water.
He got it out and to shore, but the stewardess Ginger appropriated it from his stockpile and handed it out to the survivors. He was a bit put out. He'd planned on rationing it, but they greedily sucked it down. Some even complained about drinking “common” bottled water instead of designer label brands.
Bret tried to help out but was pushed to the sidelines after a while by the state trooper, doctor, and other experts. He was quiet, reserved, and a bit of a hermit. He'd ignored the slight, and when no one paid him attention, he did his own thing. He rather regretted letting his mother talk him into the flight; he knew she was never going to let herself live it down.
He shook his head and concentrated on survival. When the others kept marginalizing his efforts or just taking things he worked hard to get, he felt pushed out of the group. He gathered the material he wanted from the wreck and surrounding area, what gear he could, and then went to work while they dragged pieces of seat cushions out to help keep the wounded and themselves comfortable. Clothing was draped around to dry.
As night began to fall and there was no sign of rescue in sight, Bret realized they would be spending the night there. He wearily pulled some wood over and formed a crude lean-to shelter. Then he went to gather dry wood and fire making material.
He had been the first to get a fire going at the crash site. The others in the main camp couldn't get a fire going even with a pocket lighter. Of course they had been using green wood and had skipped using kindling or grass. Only when someone had burned a magazine had they gotten the fire going, but it had gone out due to the wind. They had eventually noticed his fire and then borrowed a burning torch to get their own fires going.
They had huddled together under the few blankets around the fires, staring into them until one by one the survivors had fallen asleep. Bret stayed up a bit longer and whittled some wood into stakes, spears, and hand tools. He decided someone had to keep watch too, but eventually he grew tired enough to give up and turn in as well. He fell asleep to the murmur of the waves lapping the shore.
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People had naturally paired up. Those that had traveling companions, of course, or those that had sat next to each other or seemed to be alike buddied up. The state trooper encouraged it, telling them to keep an eye on their buddies’ welfare.
Early the next morning after gathering some fruit and roots he found, Bret reluctantly handed it out and noticed the pairings. Just about everyone had a buddy, well, everyone but a nurse helping the doctor with the wounded. She seemed to be pulling it together; a few people were barely holding on. He saw her off crying when they lost two of the patients due to their wounds. He felt for her.
“So,” he said when she was alone. She rubbed at her arm, still trying to warm up. The worst of her period was over, but she was still in no mood to be hit on. Sh
e couldn't believe them. They just survived a plane crash and all they could think of was sex? Men! She thought in exasperation. There should be a bounty, she thought acidly.
“So,” she said, turning to him in annoyance. Two of the guys had hit on her in the plane, and another two had hit on her on the shore the night before. She wasn't in the mood to be bothered.
Besides, it was her time of the month, precisely the worst time to be going on a single's dating retreat. But she just had to get away from her damned ex and his wedding. Her entire family had planned to attend, even putting up some of his guests and volunteering her to do the same. She'd booked the retreat out of desperation to get away and now she was stuck.
“Some vacation,” Bret said, looking out over the lake. “Pretty place to end up though,” he said.
“If you like this sort of thing,” she said, not thrilled with him. She knew what he was up to; she could tell he was pushing.
“I'm Bret by the way. Bret Drummon. I am, well,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “I guess you could say a handyman. An outdoorsman.” he said.
“Then you should fit in real well here,” she said coldly, looking over her shoulder to him.
He didn't catch the hint though. He just cleared his throat.