by Lexi Duval
And despite his reassuring words, I can't help but be unnerved by that look of doubt in his eye, and exactly what he told me. Because he said I'd been out for more than a day, and clearly no one had found us yet.
And if they haven't found us yet, they may never do so...
With that thought digging deep in my head, my eyes close as the sun starts to set, and I fall into the most troubled sleep of my life.
Chapter Two
My eyes click open with a start, like a ventriloquist dummy, snapping wide and bright in the darkness.
My head lingers with broken images and terrible dreams. The sight of Benjy's dead eyes. The feel of the rushing wind as the plane plummeted toward the sea. The flashing lights and calls of terror among the passengers.
I can feel my heart racing, galloping behind my ribs, and feel a cold sweat running along my forehead. The ache in my brain has dulled to a light throb, and the air has grown cooler around me, the temperature dropping with the coming of night.
I look around at the small nest under the palm trees, and see no sight of Flint. Ahead, the sea sparkles with the lights from above, a million stars reflecting their celestial glow on the endless body of water.
It's peaceful, so calming and beautiful, but all of it is contrasted with the horrible visions in my head. The terrible sights and sounds that echo back there.
I creep out onto the sand, and see a shadow sitting down the beach to the left. He sits motionless, his elbows on his knees, just staring out at the silent sea. He's still wearing his suit pants and shirt, only now they're ragged and torn and stained with blood and grime.
Stepping forward, I walk along the sand toward him until I can see the light reflecting off his blue eyes, shining and wet with moisture.
“Flint?”
He half jumps in the sand, my presence clearly unexpected, and turns his eyes to me.
“Libby...” He wipes his eyes briefly, blinking a couple of times until they're dry. “What are you doing up?”
“Can't sleep,” I say. “Nightmares.”
He nods lightly, probably sharing the same problem.
“How's your head?”
I move forward and sit in the sand near to him.
“It's feeling better. The ache has gone down.”
He reaches over and feels my forehead like before.
“You're definitely cooler. The night air is helping.”
We sit together for a while, looking out over the ocean, two souls lost to nature, completely at its mercy. I wonder what the time is, try to work it out by the position of the moon.
I wonder whether they're out there now, searching for us in their boats and planes. Whether they've already passed by the island and seen nothing to stop for.
In the distance, I notice the smallest light shining on the horizon, moving almost imperceptibly across the ocean.
In my stupidity and desperation I point at it and stand, my head rushing.
“A boat. It's a boat!”
Flint stays where he is.
“It's been passing for a while now. Going the other way. Probably a cargo ship if we can see it from here.”
His voice has no enthusiasm, laden down with the weight of reality. The ship will never come near. It will never see us.
“Give it time, Libby. They'll come, you'll see.”
It was only earlier today that he told me that. That he assured me of that. But already I can sense the doubt creeping in, its tendrils reaching forward and suffocating his hope.
We sit there for a while until I feel the pang of sleep rising inside me once more. And I pass out right there on the beach, lying on my side, needing to be close to him, to have that human contact so far from civilization.
And in my hazy dreams and nightmares, I feel myself lift, my body becoming weightless, as I'm moved back up the beach away from the encroaching surf.
When I wake a few hours later, the sun rising on the horizon, I find myself back under the treeline, enclosed under a covering of palm leaves that offer protection from the low, rising sun.
I get up, my head feeling better, the ache almost completely gone, and find Flint at the widest point of the beach, several hundred feet from our little base camp. As I approach I see him disappearing into the jungle and coming back out with sticks and bits of foliage.
He places them on the sand, positioning them carefully, and I immediately know what he's doing. It makes my heart sink.
SOS.
He's writing the code in huge letters on the dry part of the beach where the tide stops. In the distance, further down the coast of the island, I can just about make out the twigs and branches that spell out another word.
I can't see what it is, but I can imagine.
HELP.
“Do you want some help?”
His face seems to light at seeing me, but looks tired and weary. It looks as though he hasn't slept, the stubble on his chin already thickening.
“Sure. More hands the better. There's plenty of old branches in the jungle. Get whatever you can.”
I move toward the treeline, his voice stopping me just before I enter.
“And watch out for snakes and spiders.”
Is he serious? And I didn't think this situation could get any worse.
I move into the tangled mess of trees. It's lush, green, and dripping with moisture. Some of the leaves gather pools of rain and dew. I arch one leaf down, draining the liquid into my mouth, and feel immediate relief from the heat.
I find more, and drink until I'm satisfied, not quite taking in the importance of having such a readily available water source.
“The leaves must have filled with water during the storm that took the plane down.”
Flint is emerging into the dim, crowded jungle from the bright beach beyond.
“It's the rainy season, so I guess we're lucky.”
His choice of words is poor, and he knows it. Because the luck that's given us this easily accessible water, also put us here in the first place and killed some of our colleagues.
“Have you checked the rest of the island?” I ask, trying to keep my mind off the crash, off Benjy and all the lives lost.
“No, not yet. I've been right down the beach to the left until it stops at a cliff face. To the right it merges into thick jungle. I haven't gone further into the island because I didn't want to lose you for long or get lost.”
“So...you don't know what's back there?”
He shakes his head, and starts lifting a branch from the jungle floor.
“Well, we might be on an inhabited island then? Should we go?”
“It's possible, but highly unlikely. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of uninhabited island here. But, there's no harm in trying.”
A glint of hope rises inside me. Geography isn't my strongest suit, but it's surely possible that there's some indigenous population somewhere here?
Once we've finished with the SOS sign on the beach, we begin trekking through the interior of the island. It doesn't take long for my spirits to grow as damp as the trees around us.
Within about half an hour, we emerge on the other side, onto a beach littered with craggy rocks and jagged stones. We go left, and then right, and find the same, the realization soon becoming clear that this island is nothing but a long rectangular shape, with a pure white beach on one side, and a rocky one on the other.
In between, lie hills covered in thick jungle, while to the south the island climbs to a higher peak that offers a wide view of the ocean around us.
We climb to the summit through the close net of trees until we reach an open plateau at the top. Around us, there's nothing but ocean, with a few dotted islands miles out on the horizon and absolutely nothing else.
And it dawns on us both at that point, that this might just be our home for a little while longer.
Chapter Three
“OK, so we've got water, for now, so that's not our main concern.”
I'm nodding my head, letting Flint speak.
I'm no survival expert, but he seems to know what he's talking about.
“And what is?”
“Food. We've got water, shelter, so all we need is food. There are plenty of coconut trees around, so that should be enough to keep us going. All we need is a way to open them, like a sharp piece of rock...”
“OK, well I'm sure we can find something like that out on the reef.”
He nods, peering out toward the sparkling ocean.
“Good. Well, let's wade in there and take a look.”
We stand from our little shelter, nothing but a thick canopy of leaves above us, and begin making our way toward the beach. I'm still wearing the skirt and white shirt I had on in the plane, with only my bra and panties underneath. The sun is so intense that I need all the coverage I can get despite the heat.
Flint, meanwhile, quickly strips out of his tattered pants and shirt, leaving him in only his underwear. His body is tanned and primed to deal with the sun, and nicely toned and athletic too. As he wades in the water, I can't help but think he belongs there, his body the shape of a swimmer's.
The water is warm and offers some comfort from the heat, and I immediately see fish darting here and there under the clear blue surf. A little further out, perhaps 100 feet from the shore, I spot some rocks and reef formations beneath the surface of the water.
Flint stops and turns to me, his muscular frame shimming with salty water.
“How well can you swim?” he asks.
“OK, I guess.”
“Right, well be careful. There's no knowing if there are currents here, so don't go too deep out. The water looks calm in the shallows, so try to stay there. And, well, there are probably sharks out there too...”
“Sharks!”
“We're in the South Pacific, Libby. You get a lot of sharks here. Tigers are the most concerning, although they are unlikely to venture into the reef.”
He looks into my eyes, widening at the thought of some horrific shark encounter.
“How about you keep a lookout? We only need a sharp piece of coral or rock. It shouldn't take long.”
I nod and plant my feet into the sand in the shallows, and watch as he disappears under the surface of the sea like a dolphin. He glides gracefully, moving out deeper toward the reef and staying under for some time.
He returns to the surface periodically before diving back under and disappearing from sight once more. All that remains is his shadow, floating along the colorful ocean floor, searching for a suitable implement.
After a few minutes, he's swimming back to me under the light ripple of waves, and emerging into the shallows with a sharp slice of rock in his hand.
“This will do,” he says, before leading me back toward our camp and the few coconuts we've gathered.
It's strange how quickly you set your mind to the task in a situation like this. It's been only two days since I woke up here, and in some strange way I'm already starting to come to terms with it all.
Flint assures me that we'll be rescued. That it might be days, weeks, but no longer. I still see some doubt there, but his words remain adamant, and I have to believe that he's right. So instead of moping around and losing my mind, I set all my focus on surviving here until the time of our rescue comes.
In our little base camp we've already gathered a few coconuts from the jungle. One, which had split open when falling, we've already eaten. The milk inside was just about the most delicious thing I've ever had after being denied any food for nearly two days. The flesh, too, tasted better than it had any right to, especially since I've never liked coconut.
Flint holds one coconut against the base of a tree, and begins lightly chopping at the hairy outer shell.
“Careful,” I say, seeing how close he's getting to his hand.
“I've got this, don't worry,” comes his response.
Within a few minutes of careful cutting, he's made a slice large enough to get his fingers inside and rip the thing open. Some of the milk is lost as it suddenly splits, but most remains inside.
He passes me a half – the larger half – and we enjoy our first coconut breakfast together. I'm sure it will be the first of many coconut based meals.
For the rest of the day, Flint sets about trying to improve our shelter. He uses the same sharp piece of rock as a rudimentary ax, chopping palm leaves and vines and creating an enclosed space, a bit like a tent, that he says should block out the sun and the rain and help keep us cool.
I try to help where I can, and find myself learning a lot about lashing things together and fashioning things from natural resources.
“My dad used to do a lot of this sort of stuff,” he tells me when I ask him how he knows all of this. “He was a bit of a survivalist, knew how to be self sufficient.”
I find that odd, considering the guy was one of the richest men in the world. I'd always assumed that billionaires could do nothing with their hands because they've got so many pairs of hands to do everything for them.
“I was sorry to hear about his death,” I say.
Flint's dad had died not long ago, perhaps a year, in a car accident in LA. It was all over a news and was big on the national press. Hard to miss if you lived anywhere across the US.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice hollow.
I can imagine that the papers are having a field day with our current predicament. Father killed in a car accident. Son now killed in a plane crash.
The thought sends a shiver through me; the idea that we are simply considered dead, sucked down to the ocean depths within the belly of the plane. I don't know where we hit, but if the ocean was that deep, surely they'd have no way of descending into the blackness of the ocean to recover the bodies?
So...even if they did find the plane, or knew where it went down, does that actually mean they'd be able to recover it? Or even know who's down there, caught in that steel trap?
For the rest of the day, the thought consumes me, and I go into my shell. Flint seems to do the same, perhaps the both of us thinking the same thing but unwilling to voice our concerns.
By the day's end, when the sun begins to set and the silent darkness of night descends, the shelter is all done and looking more homely than I can reasonably have expected.
“It's amazing, Flint,” I tell him, keen to thank him for his efforts.
“Wait til it starts raining, then we'll see how amazing it is.”
That night, we find out. A deluge pours from above, providing a stern test for the shelter that it dully passes. Thankfully, our shelter remains under the canopy of leaves above, which take on a lot of the brunt of the storm.
The winds pick up, and howls outside, slashing across us and making our new home rattle and shake. But nothing more.
By morning, when we wake to another day of blue skies and scorching sun, the shelter remains standing, a little misshapen but still liveable for now.
Flint inspects the minor damage, considers things for a moment, and then spends the day making sure the entire thing is more steadfast and durable. I suspect it's just as much about keeping busy as anything else.
As he works, and I help, I consider the man, stripped of his position in the world, down to nothing but his bare bones. Out here, on this idyllic and isolated island, he's not a billionaire or a celebrity. He's not famous to the trees and the birds and the fish in the sea.
He's just a man, trying to survive, trying to keep busy and maintain the hope that somewhere, out there, people are searching for us.
And that one day soon, we'll be found.
Chapter Four
“How did you know my name was Libby?”
It's nighttime, and we're locked together within our shelter, the air growing cooler as the hours pass. Flint lies next to me on the palm leaf covered floor of our natural tent, his tattered suit jacket under his head as a pillow.
He's wearing nothing but his underwear, his body shining as the starlight cuts in through the opening from the beach. I'm wearing my shirt, my skirt, ripped and fa
shioned into a suitable outfit for the beach, the arms torn off the shirt, and the skirt shortened to be more comfortable in the heat of the day.
Already, I can see a beard forming on Flint's face. It's only been a week, but he's already changing, his face growing a bit more haggard and worn, his skin deeply tanned and darkening by the day.
I'm slowly catching up, but my skin is naturally lighter and more prone to burning. Without any sunscreen, I've moderated my time under the scorching star, and now my body is gradually growing accustomed to the intense rays.
Flint looks at me in the moonlight, his blue eyes shining out of the shadow of his face.
“We never met on the plane,” I continue. “I never told you my name.”
“I asked someone,” he says. “I saw you at the back of the plane and wanted to know who you were. I'm good with names.”
We lie looking at each other for a while, and I thank God that in this mess at least he's here. If he wasn't, I'd probably die or go mad. Get bitten by a snake, eaten by a shark, burn to death from sunstroke, you name it.
Flint is my guardian angel, and he even saved me right at the start, nursing me back to health under the palm trees.
“How much do you remember?” I haven't asked him yet, not wanting to relive the accident or let it back in. But still, I haven't heard his side of the story. I don't know how I came to find myself on the beach with only a cut on my head that's now almost fully healed.
“About the crash?”
I nod in the dim light, the two of us lying on our sides looking at each other. Sharing stories like we're two kids out camping in the woods.
“Too much,” he says, his voice lowering. “I remember when we hit. You could see the water, black and raging, rushing up on us. The plane broke in two, I had no control.”
His eyes turn slightly vacant, as if he's watching it all in his head again, recounting what he's seeing.
“The screaming all ended abruptly,” he continues. “I managed to reach a bit of the wreckage, a torn piece of metal with a window pane...”