by Hagen, Layla
"We're good,” I say. “The supplies should last until they rescue us."
Tristan doesn't answer.
"Won't they last?" I press, turning to him. He's bent on one knee between the pieces of the wrecked wing, inspecting something that separated from the plane and lies on the ground.
"They might last," he says.
"I've read about emergency location transmitters—”
"Ours is defective."
"What?"
"Useless."
“But the plane just had the technical inspection…”
“They did a terrible job,” he says angrily.
For a few moments, I am too stunned for words. "The flight plan…" I mumble.
Tristan stands up, his dark brown eyes boring into mine. Somehow I know, even before he opens his mouth, that what he is going to say will kill the last hope I'm clinging to. "We did file a flight plan. But I deviated considerably from it last night when I was looking for a place to land. We lost communication before I deviated, so there was no way I could inform anyone."
"What are you telling me, Tristan?" Desperation strangles my voice. "That there is no way for them to find us?"
"It's not like that. They can still guess how we—”
"Guess? We're in the middle of—” I stop, looking around wildly. "Where are we? Is the Amazon River nearby?"
"No."
"How do you know?"
"I've climbed that tree to look around." He points at one of the giant trees next to us. "The river isn't anywhere in sight."
"I don't believe that," I whisper. "I don't…" Swirling on my heel, and sinking about an inch further in the muddy earth, I head to the tree.
"What are you doing?" he calls after me.
"I want to see."
"You'll hurt yourself."
"I don't care."
Driven by rabid determination, I curse the overgrown roots around the tree for blocking access to it, but once I find my way through them I'm grateful for them because they help propel me upward until I reach the first branches. I'm not an outdoors girl, and it shows. I'm panting when I'm only halfway up the tree. In my defense, this tree is higher than a three-story house. Once or twice I slip, which may be because I can't bear to look too closely at where I'm putting my hands. The entire surface of the tree is covered with a mushy moss, and by the creepy tingles on my fingers every time I grab a branch, I have the uneasy feeling there are plenty of tiny, multi-legged animals I don't want to see lurking inside it. I've never been a fan of animals with more than four feet.
When I reach the top and wedge myself between two branches, I breathe relieved, happy I made it.
And then I taste bile in my mouth as I take in the sight in front of me. Nothing but green tree-tops. Everywhere. Dense, and stretching as far as I can see. The tree I'm in isn't even high compared to the ones I see in the distance, which makes me think we are on some kind of hill. No sign of the river, or anything that might indicate there are human settlements nearby. If we leave the plane, there is nowhere to go. I make a full turn. From what I can see, in a radius that seems like a few hundred miles, there's no sign of civilization, or a path.
Our best bet is to find the Amazon River and walk alongside it. Human settlements are most likely close to the water. But there's no saying how many miles there are to the river or which direction is the right one. And the jungle isn't a good place to set out on foot, hoping for the best. No… Our hope will have to come from the sky. Which is empty. No planes or helicopters. Not even a distant sound.
A knot forms in my abdomen, and I start another full turn but stop when my head starts spinning. I rest on the branch, closing my eyes. Chris will come looking for me. He will. Determined not to lose my faith, I start climbing down the tree. I cringe as nameless small creatures crawl on my fingers, but I keep my eyes on my destination and manage not to panic.
Until I only have one set of branches between me and the roots, and my hand touches something cold, slimy and far softer than a branch could be. In the fraction of a second it takes me to register it's a snake—a large snake—I instinctively withdraw my hand, which throws me off balance. I hit the roots with a loud thump, landing on my right ankle and twisting it slightly, then stumble forward until Tristan catches me.
"What—?”
"Snake," I mutter, fisting his white shirt, seeking refuge in the warmth of his arms as cold sweat breaks out on every inch of my body. Right. Legless animals have just surpassed multi-legged ones on the list of creatures I despise. Strands of hair stick to my sweaty face, and as I push them away, my engagement ring comes in sight again. And I start crying in earnest, with tears and sobs that wrack my body. As much as I tried to convince myself Chris will find us when I was on top of the tree, down here that seems an impossibility. Tristan is saying something, but I can't make out what.
"I am so glad Kyra isn't with us," I say between sobs.
"Yeah, me too," Tristan says, his arms tightening around me. At least neither Tristan nor I have any children. He has parents, though. Strangely, I feel relieved that my parents aren't alive anymore. I can't imagine what a hell they'd be going through if they knew their only daughter was lost in the Amazon rainforest, most likely dead.
"Chris will do everything to find you, Aimee. Don't doubt that for a second."
"I don't." I say, his words giving me strength. That's true. If I am certain of one thing, it's that Chris will do whatever it takes to find me. Being the heir to his father's multimillion-dollar empire, he has the resources to do it. I don't know how long I stay curled against Tristan, overwhelmed, weak, and sweating. He tries to soothe me, his arms embracing me with an awkwardness groomed over years of spending hours at a time in each other's company, the silence between us interrupted only by polite requests. Our relationship has always been stilted, so different from the relationship I have with the other employees in Chris's household.
Well, his parents' household—the Moore’s have an enormous villa with an even more enormous garden just outside L.A. Chris and I live in a spacious apartment downtown with no employees at all. But we're at his parents' house so often, it's almost like a second home. We were there three weeks ago to celebrate my twenty-sixth birthday. Their staff has been with them so long they are like one big family: the cook, the maids, the gardeners, and my beloved Maggie—the woman who cared for Chris and me when we were kids. Our parents were close friends. Since my parents’ work took them away from home for months at a time, and Chris and I were the same age, I spent most of my childhood at Chris’s home, with Maggie babysitting us.
Chris's parents kept her as housekeeper after we were grown, because she had become like family. I am very close to her and on friendly terms with the other staff. Tristan is the only one who actually works for Chris, flying him around the country about once or twice a week to visit the company's subsidiaries. I see Tristan often, because when Chris doesn't fly out, Tristan is my driver. But we haven't grown any closer because of it.
Still, his presence is like an anchor for me. I rest my head on his hard chest, my cheek pressing against his steel muscles. His heartbeat is remarkably steady. I want his calmness and strength to overpower my despair. I stay in his arms until I've cried out my weakness. Then, with a newly found determination, I stand up.
"Let's walk until we find a river—any river, then we can continue downstream. It must flow into the Amazon. They can find us easier if we're on the river. And if they don't find us," I gulp, "we have a better chance of finding a settlement along a river."
Tristan, his shirt so soaked from the humidity he looks like he's been walking in pouring rain, shakes his head. "For now our best course of action is to stay here, near the plane. It's easier to spot a plane than two people. They might be able to figure out where we crashed. The first forty-eight hours after a crash are when the search missions are most intense."
Relief ripples along my skin. Forty-eight hours minus the ones when I was knocked out. Then we'll be going ho
me.
"I want to start a fire," I say. "If they send planes over, they will see the fire, right?"
He hesitates. "I doubt they can see a fire down here with the canopy so thick." He's right. The rich canopy weaves itself in a dome above us, allowing slim strings of light to drip through it here and there, drawing loops of light that illuminate the humid cloud-like shadow surrounding us.
"I still want to start a fire."
"We will. There’s a way to build it so it’s safe even with so many trees nearby. We need a lot of smoke. That'll rise up far above the canopy. It'll be an excellent indicator of our location. It'll be tricky finding dry wood, though. Almost everything here is wet."
"But that's good for smoke, right? Wet wood?"
"Yeah… but we need dry wood to start the fire."
“Can’t we start the fire with one of those mirror shards? I don’t know much about it, but I saw that on TV once.”
“It’s not necessary to use a mirror; I have a lighter. But we still need wood.”
"We'll find something," I say, undeterred. But Tristan seems hesitant. "What?"
"You stay inside the plane," he says. "I’ll search for wood."
"No, I want to be helpful."
"The jungle is a dangerous place, Aimee. I'd rather you were unharmed when Chris finds you. Us."
"Well, if we don't search for the wood, we won't be found. It'll be quicker if we both do it. Besides, we won't go too far away from the plane, will we?"
"No, we won't," Tristan says. "I'll get a can of soda. We have to take care not to dehydrate."
The moment he mentions it, my thirst returns full force, my throat dry and raspy. Tristan disappears inside the plane, returning with a soda. I take the first sip, and it's all I can do not to drink the entire content. I pass the can to him, and he takes a few sips as well.
"Why did you bring just one can?" I say, my throat aching for more.
"We have to be careful not to run out of it."
"But this is the rainforest, right? It should rain soon."
Tristan puts the can on the ground, goes to our supply line-up, and returns with the two pocket knives. "It hasn't rained since we crashed last night. But it's the rainy season; we should have some soon."
"Well, let's look at the bright side, if there's no rain, we can start a fire."
He hands me one of the knives, saying, "Use this to cut any branches that might be useful. Take care where you step."
With that, we head toward the tree nearest to us. It's not the one I climbed earlier. I intend to steer clear of that one, though I'm sure other trees are full of snakes as well. I recoil at the memory of its cold skin. It was a very large snake, though not large enough to be an anaconda. I watched a few documentaries about the Amazon a few weeks back, because our honeymoon was supposed to be in a tourist resort in the rainforest, and Chris wanted to make a safari inside the forest. The documentary told about the millions of things that could kill one in the forest: animals, contaminated water, poisonous food, and a lot more. In fact, the only thing that seemed harmless was the air. It put me off the safari, and I managed to convince Chris to drop it.
Despite being surrounded by trees, finding dry wood turns out to be just as problematic as Tristan predicted. We even search inside hollow trees, but what the rain hasn't touched, condensation has turned unusable for starting a fire. We advance very slowly, the thick plants making our task cumbersome.
"Damn it. If we had a machete this would be easier," Tristan says, walking in front of me. After a while, sweating like a pig, I start losing concentration; the little soda I drank earlier long having left my body. Tristan appears to be feeling just as bad. The path beneath us slopes slightly downward, which confirms my suspicion we are on a hill. The more we descend, the muddier the ground becomes. It's almost fluid.
"Let's stop for a bit," I pant. I buckle forward, my knees trembling, and I put my hands on my thighs to steady myself. I keep my eyes on the forest floor, which is covered in mud and leaves and has a red hue. I'm grateful I'm wearing running shoes and not sandals, because they protect me from the creatures crawling on the rainforest floor. I notice a myriad of insects, and decide to close my eyes to stop from giving in to panic. But closing my eyes seems to make my ears more sensitive, because the sound of a thousand beings breathing all around me hits me. Angry chirping birds, sinuous slithering, and howling I don't even want to think about. They’re ominous, all of them.
"These will do," I hear Tristan say, and with great effort, I stand up straight. He's carrying a bunch of twigs with one arm. "Can you hold these?" I nod and take the twigs from him, holding them tight against my chest with both arms. He returns a few minutes later with another bunch in his arms.
"Are you ready to walk back to the plane, or do you want to rest a while longer?" he asks, eyes full of concern.
"I’m fine, let's go." Tristan puts one of his hands protectively at the small of my back, and I'm grateful, because my legs wobble. My breath skitters as I try to propel my feet forward, and I press the twigs so tight to my chest they crinkle. The walk back takes forever. I pull myself together when I see the plane again. Tristan goes inside and returns with a lighter and a can of soda. We each take a few sips, and I rest against the airstairs, strangely reassured by the feel of the metal against my skin. It's something familiar in this otherwise alien place.
Though overcome by a tiredness that has crept into my bones, I move to help Tristan start the fire, but find he's already done it. He placed it in a spot under a wide hole in the canopy so the smoke can rise high in the sky.
"Lucky you had that lighter," I say, standing next to him.
He smiles. "I can start a fire without a lighter anyway."
"That's an… interesting skill to have." I notice he used all the dry wood to start the fire, and now he's putting the less dry branches on top. Smoke comes in a matter of seconds.
"I must say, after your encounter with the snake, I thought you'd want to avoid the forest," Tristan says.
I chuckle. "Give me some credit, will you?"
He bends over the wood, fumbling with the twigs, rearranging them. Though the fire is weak, swirls of smoke rise up to the sky. They're not strong enough to be visible from a distance though.
"We should gather more wood," I say. "Better wood. We need more smoke."
"No. What we need is water. We have two soda cans left. That's a more pressing issue."
I don't argue. He's right. "Where do you suggest we look for it?" I ask.
Tristan eyes me. "You go inside the plane and rest for a bit. I'll look for a stream nearby."
"I want to come too."
"No." The firmness in his voice takes me by surprise. "There's no need for both of us to waste our energy."
"I don't want to just stay here, doing nothing."
"Then bring out everything in the plane that can hold water, so if rain comes, we can collect it."
"Got it."
As Tristan leaves, making his way between the trees, armed with his pocket knife, fear grips me. "Be careful," I say.
"Don't worry about me," he calls over his shoulder. There is no tremble in his voice, no hesitation in his steps. The forest doesn’t seem to scare him at all. I scout the inside of the plane for anything that might collect water, but I don't find much. I line empty soda cans outside, then start peeking around the wrecked wing to see if there's anything I can use. I scout through the shredded metal, doing my best not to cut myself. No luck. I give up the search when nausea overwhelms me, reminding me my water level is low. I walk over to the airstairs, resting against it. Where is Tristan? How much time has passed since he disappeared into the forest?
I stare at the empty soda cans, when an idea occurs to me. A few trees around me have leaves as huge as a tennis racket. They must be of some use. I drag my feet to one whose leaves have an edge that curls upward, perfect for holding water. I use the pocket knife Tristan gave me to cut the leaves. Though they come off almost effortless
ly, by the time I cut off about twelve leaves or so, I feel like I'm going to faint. I wobble back to the plane, trying to bind the leaves in some form that will hold water. They end up looking like tightly woven baskets. I suppose we'll see if they're tight enough to hold water. I keep my ears strained, hoping to hear a plane fly over us. Nothing.
When I'm done with the leaves, I collapse on the airstairs, exhausted. I'm tempted, oh so tempted to grab another soda can from the plane and drink it…
It's almost dark when Tristan's voice resounds from the trees. "I didn't find anything. Oh, great thinking," he says, pointing to the leaf baskets I laid out in front of me. He looks terrible. His skin is glistening with sweat, and he has dark circles under his eyes. "These should collect a healthy amount of water."
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the implication gnaws at me. We won't leave this place as soon as I thought. But I can't find the energy to worry about that. Probably because of the thirst. "Let's just hope it rains."
"It will be pouring soon," he says with reassurance. "Let’s get inside the plane, it's almost dark. It's dangerous to be outside in the dark."
"Beasts?" I ask.
"And mosquitos. They're more dangerous than beasts."
We each use an insect repellent wipe from the survival kit. Then Tristan grabs the contents of the survival kit he laid out, as well as the mirror shards, and we proceed to the airstairs. Even with Tristan's help, I climb very slowly. He helps me to my seat and shuts the door of the plane. We each eat a sandwich and share the last two cans of soda, which do nothing to still my thirst.
Afterward I lie on the seat I slept on last night. I didn’t bother putting it upright this morning or removing the pillow and blanket Tristan gave me last night, so it’s already resembling a bed.
"I'm going to the cockpit," Tristan announces.
"Why?"
"To sleep."
"You can sleep on one of the other seats. It'll be much more comfortable than—”