by Chris Hechtl
“Are you a nurse or something miss …?” he asked.
“School nurse. Helen and I know each other sort of. She told a coworker who told me about this trip. I decided to go too. Not that it is any of your business,” she said.
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I was just, um, wondering about the whole buddy thing,” he said. “You know, I, um, wanted to know if you wanted to share my lean-to,” he said.
She turned, eyes glittering. She looked at the lean-to he had made and had been in the process of improving. It was better than the others but on the outskirts, farther away from everyone than she liked.
“No thanks,” she replied with a sniff. “I think I'll pass.”
“Okay, so I guess we're not going steady,” he said, hands apart. “No problem. But ….”
He was stopped from putting his foot further in his mouth when she gasped, turned, and slapped him. As he recovered, momentarily stunned, she stomped on his foot and then kneed him in the balls. “That's what I think of your idea,” she said coldly as he dropped with a groan to his knees, both hands clutching his aching privates.
She stormed off back to the group who had apparently watched the whole thing. He sat there, trying to breathe for the moment until he limped away to a nearby rock.
When his thoughts and attention finally moved away from the pain he had been enduring to the outer world once more, he saw the dark angry looks from the group. No one said a word but they were clearly taking sides, and he was on the outside looking in he thought. He was being shunned by the group, so he decided to go off on his own.
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The group struggled to get by as the day wore on. They had plenty of water but little food. Four of the group were vegetarians; they were okay with the fruit and roots in the area but complained about the lack of selection.
Five of the survivors were wounded; two were critical and not expected to survive the night. One of the guys had broken ribs and internal injuries. Doc quietly murmured to Dwayne that she was going to do what she could to keep him comfortable and still, but if help didn't arrive, his prognosis was grim. Three more of the survivors were considered walking wounded. One guy had an improvised splint on his arm. Doc had taken a look and pronounced it was either a light sprain or tendons. The guy insisted it was broken. She had gotten into an argument with him; there was no sign of swelling at all. She'd finally given up on the argument and created a splint for him to wear. He'd get over it soon enough she hoped.
Six of the survivors were regular campers, but only one had used anything other than a motor home. Several people had experience hunting in their lives like Dwayne Bushnell, the off duty Alaskan State Trooper, but they had either done it years ago or had hunted with modern weapons and equipment for casual sport. A couple of people like Dwayne also had military training complete with survival training, but they admitted they were woefully out of practice.
The second day they got onto the priorities: water, fire, shelter, food. It became a mantra to Dwayne. Most of the people were exhausted and traumatized by the landing, so those that had experience hadn't pushed the issue beyond building fires and finding a source of water. They had expected someone to show up, rescuers to find their beacon or even hunters in the area, but nothing. They also hadn't seen anyone flying overhead, which was also odd.
By sunrise the fires were gone; they had died out in the night due to lack of fuel. Dwayne put a group on the first priority, gathering material to make shelters. The trooper tried to get them organized, but he ran into resistance and whining. Many didn't want to be bothered thinking that salvation was only a few hours or minutes away. Several people still walked about with their cell phones trying to get a signal.
A few of the more able-bodied volunteers created lean-tos over the injured with branches and pieces of the plane they could scavenge. Cutting them was a problem though; no one had a proper knife. They had to break off the branches by hand or pick up the dead branches from the ground.
A few in the group tried to get Bret back but he was gone. A tentative search was called off when they realized the sun was going down. They snarled about his absence, saying crap about him. The trooper ignored it. He did his best to try to control his shivers as he got the fire going. It was a little easier with a lean-to as a wind break but still a pain in the ass. Having some rocks around the fire helped as well. He vowed that they had to do better in the morning.
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Bret set up shop near an interior lake and mountain river several kilometers away. The river ran through a series of rapids to the ocean. It was early spring, so he found loads of food including cattails, berries, grubs, and fish. The roots of the cattails were edible, and the pods at the top were filled with fluff for insulation and fire-making material. He stored it in the pods for later. After a couple hours of harvesting, he had a nice pile.
He gathered sticks and created a fish trap. Once that was complete, he looked at his priorities. He'd come up with a mental list overnight; the four essentials were fire, water, shelter, and food. He had fresh water but needed to boil it to keep dysentery and other problems away. He made a mental note to do that and to find a way to filter it later.
Most of the fruit in the area was either perennials or gone by. He was surprised there was any at all, and a bit confused. It was spring here; he could tell by the early buds and snow still in the shadows. But it was supposed to be September; what he was seeing didn't make any sense. They were in the north; there was no way the plane could have gone that far off course and crashed around New Zealand or that area, which made the season odd.
He also didn't recognize the night sky. At dawn he could have sworn there were three moons on the horizon, not just the moon and Mercury. One might have been Mercury, but if it was it was pretty damn close. It was also not round; it had been shaped like a potato.
He shook off those thoughts and then went back to work. He gathered river rocks to encircle his fire pit, dug the pit with a stick and some bark, then gathered strips of birch bark for later. He'd selected a nice spot for his shelter, slightly elevated with the back to an uprooted tree. He dragged a log over to use as a beam and then got to work on gathering materials. By nightfall he had built a new lean-to shelter and bedded down for the night. He was weary but proud of himself.
He knew that the first seventy-two hours were critical; it was when he and the others would have the most energy to get anything done. Survival burned through resources their body couldn't easily replenish on a starvation diet. If he, hell, they weren't careful, dehydration would set in. He prodded the water bottles. He had several near the fire, close enough to pick up the heat and boil the water, but not so close that it would burn or melt the plastic. As long as he moved them and turned them like eggs, they'd be fine. They'd taste like the sock and charcoal he'd used as a filter, but it was still better than drinking raw water.
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The next day Bret had a quick breakfast and then set about making the first of his tools. The tools would be the most critical of all, knives and hunting weapons. He had two knives, his trusty belt knife, and a Swiss army pocket knife. He would have to use them sparingly or the blades would wear out quickly he thought.
He started on making a few spears, the start of a pair of bows, a collection of arrows, an atlatl, a club with a sharp end, and sticks for more fish traps. He'd thought about making a figure-four deadfall but knew it was tricky, and it only worked on occasion. He used bits of wire from the wreckage and some berries to make snares. He used some of the sticks to create funnels to hopefully funnel the prey, most likely rodents like rabbits into the snare. Hopefully, anyway, he thought.
He checked his first fish trap near midmorning, but it was empty. His stomach groaned, so he wrinkled his nose and decided to bite the bullet. He located a nearby log and then went over to it. He picked at the rotten log ripping bark off before he pulled out some bugs. He ate a few but grimaced. They were protein, but getting them down was hell. After a while he'd had all
he could stand, so he squished a handful he had dug out and then added them as bait to the fish trap. Then he moved on leaving the log behind. Hopefully he wouldn't need it again.
He gathered more material, branches, grasses, and other things including fresh bedding material. The rocks and dried boughs he'd slept on had dug into his back and side; he wanted something better soon. And he planned to improve his shelter; the afternoon wind cut through it. At night after the sun fell, the temperature cut like a knife. He had to do something, layer the branches to cut out the wind and hopefully any rain. He turned a weather eye to the sky. So far so good, just some wispy clouds. He nodded to himself and then went to work.
One of the things he did do was empty his bladder. But he didn't do it in one place; he'd heard scent marking would deter predators. At least he hoped it was true and that he wasn't going around peeing on the trees around his makeshift camp for nothing. All that peeing made him thirsty, but he forced himself to ration his water intake. He made a note to boil more.
When he went to the stream, he carried a hefty stick he'd sharpened with him. It was luck that the shimmer under the water caught his attention. A hard whack and splash yielded a stunned fish. It was odd looking, but he happily snagged it by the gills and tossed it out of the water and up the embankment. He looked for more for a few minutes as the water settled. When no more telltale shimmers revealed themselves, he refilled his bottles, then gutted the fish. He tossed the offal into the fish trap and then hauled his prize back to the camp. Spitted fish wasn't his idea of a breakfast of champions, but it beat eating crumbs and munching on roots.
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When the rising sun crested the horizon, the main group of survivors woke up ugly and whiny. Most were stiff and sore; sleeping on the hard ground, bits of wreckage, or sand was difficult. Some were worried about fleas and other parasites. Predators were an increasing concern for some. A few of the survivors poked at the embers of the fires, trying to get something going. Of course no one had thought to gather enough firewood to last for more than a few hours. They'd gotten enough to get by and say they had done their fair share Dwayne thought sourly. So, after a while they gathered up in their blankets and waited the morning chill out.
As the sun rose, the trooper was desperate to get the survivors up and moving; he knew that the first forty-eight to seventy-two hours were when they had the most energy to do things. That was when the food they currently have in their systems was being processed. Getting a pattern established of work would help too. It would keep them focused on manageable tasks and not on how hopeless their situation seemed. By breaking the bigger picture down into smaller more manageable tasks, they had a chance of getting something done. That was, he frowned trying hard not to bark at a girl who had sunk into a funk of depression and thrown her water bottle away, if they kept going.
He got a few to make and improve the shelters, while others gathered dead wood and materials for the fires. A few others with some field experience gathered food. It was slow going though; people were sluggish in the cold morning and didn't want to move. Many didn't want to range far from the safety of the camp. There was something to be said about safety in numbers.
Near noon they had picked up some of their lost energy and were moving about more in the warmer temperature. Some of the people bathed in the nearby river; others did their business on the water's edge or in the bushes around the area. The trooper tried to get them to create a midden, but some just went wherever they felt like it. They did make an effort to improve the shelters and for once went about gathering more firewood.
He showed them how to break limbs without getting injured. Instead of using the foot and stomp method, he taught them to stick the limb between two close trees then bend the branch until it snapped. That worked out well for many. After a while there was the regular sound of breaking branches in camp.
He tried to get some to make spears or other weapons. A few were interested and joked about a return to Boy Scouts training. Of course their efforts were crude to say the least. They did better with scavenging some of the wreckage from the plane. At least a small group were smart enough to get pieces off the plane and then hauled over to where their campfires were to use as better roofing material. But only a handful of people could sit under the torn metal at one time. They had propped up the pieces on branches, so the thing looked like it was going to drop at any second.
He also got them to make an SOS message out of wreckage and logs in a nearby clearing. When they were finishing up, he watched a couple of people come up and take a few of the pieces of wood for their own fires.
“They just aren't taking it seriously,” he said, shaking his head in resignation at their latest efforts.
“That's because they know rescue is coming,” Doc said. He frowned. She looked at him, now concerned. “It is coming right?”
“Doc, did you see the sky?”
“The sky? What about it?” she asked frowning and looking up. She shaded her eyes but then went back to her task. He touched her on the arm and then pointed when she looked at him. She looked up to where he was pointing. “Notice anything wrong?” he asked, pointing away from the setting sun. She looked, using her hands to shield her eyes, turning in place.
“No.” She frowned, not sure what he was getting at.
“Well, one it's spring. It's September, remember?” Dwayne demanded. “Two, if you look …,” he came over to her side and pointed, guiding her. “See that?”
“The moon? What about it?”
“And that?” he asked, pointing to another object; this one a bit fainter in the sky.
She blinked in confusion. “Is … what … is that a satellite?”
“No, Doc, it's another moon or an asteroid. It's shaped like a potato, right?” he asked. She nodded. “Yeah, and there is another one over there,” he said, pointing to the horizon. She frowned. “Last time I checked, Earth didn't have three moons, Doc.”
“So … what's going on?” she asked, voice quavering as she fought for control. “Are you saying we're not on Earth? That's impossible! Insane!” Her voice started to raise in pitch, suddenly concerned. She turned to stare at him as others around the camp looked up in concern.
He shrugged, aware that they had an audience but not really sure about what to do about it. “Insane or not, it's there. You see it. I see it. Things aren't adding up. I don't know what's going on, but hell, I don't care. I'll skip the answers for now for real food. Something tells me help is a hell of a long way off.”
“Or not coming at all,” she whispered. Her eyes searched his for answers. He didn't have any, and she finally realized that. She nodded, head down. “I'll ….”
“Do us both a favor and keep that under wraps for now, Doc. It might get a few people off their asses, but most likely it'd start a panic. We don't need that crap now,” he said, aware it was probably a little too late.
“No …,” she sighed. “No we don't. But lying to them ….”
He shrugged. “Who's lying, Doc? It's there for all to see,” he waved a hand to the sky again. She nodded, looking once more. He saw her bite her lip and then turn away. “Come on, let's see what we can do to get things a little better.”
“Don't say more like home. I refuse to believe that,” she said vehemently. He nodded.
“I'm going to check on the wounded,” she said, moving out to the nurse nearby. He nodded.
“So, what did happen?” Doc asked when she got close to the nurse. “Everything okay?” she asked, looking at the woman who said she was a nurse. It was clear the woman had some basic knowledge but not much.
“The crash? No idea. That Gisel lady didn't remember anything else?” the nurse asked, looking expectantly at her. She shrugged. “No change. Pulse is thready and weak. He's asleep.” she said.
“That's a blessing,” Doc murmured. She shook herself and then frowned. “No. The plane had no power when we crashed. We've established that,” the doc said, hands on her hips. “I meant y
ou and …,” she indicated the vacant lean-to on the outskirts of the camp.
Hayden looked that way and then immediately scowled. “Oh, him,” she said with a disgusted snort. She turned back to the other woman. “He was hitting on me and didn't take no for an answer.”
“Oh,” Doc said in a very different voice.
“I think I got my point across,” the nurse said with her nose in the air. “He's not here so he won't bother me again.”
“Or anyone else for that matter,” Doc said.
“Good. I wanted to make sure …,” the nurse shrugged.
“Was he that bad?”
“Bad enough. Oh, he wasn't overt but he made that crack about going steady and it set me off,” she said, shaking her head. “He got the point.”
“A little too well,” the doctor said dryly. The nurse looked at her, sniffed, and then left.
That evening the remaining single women paired off with the guys for warmth in the cold night or at the very least, comfort in a traumatic situation. Two of the women shacked up together for the same reasons. Even Helen had shacked up with a guy—in her case, Dwayne the state trooper. “It takes all kinds I guess,” Hayden murmured to herself, shaking her head as she wrapped her arms around herself. She, the lady who had slapped that pig Bret, found herself left out in the cold she realized slowly. She wasn't certain if she was being ostracized like him or not. Hell, she'd been the victim! She frowned. Okay, so maybe she had overreacted she thought feeling the first hint of guilt. Maybe, just maybe she'd taken out her fear and anxiety out on him, maybe a little more than she should have, she thought. She looked around, but he was nowhere in sight.
She shivered in the dark all night that night before she reluctantly went over to Bret's abandoned lean-to. Occasionally she heard the murmurs of those around her. She watched as they used their cell phones as flashlights. One guy had to go to the bathroom; she tracked the light as he went to a nearby bush and then back.