The Edge of the World

Chapter Two

Where am I, Ian wondered for the hundredth time while stumbling along the beach. His head throbbed, and the wound along his hairline burned from the ocean water he'd used to clean it after waking in the sand hours before. Every muscle in his body spasmed from the countless injuries he sustained from the crash, making the simplest movements an agonizing chore.

He glanced about in utter confusion, finding this beach alien and eerie in its silence. Only the sound of the ocean mingling with distant thunder echoed through the air, but there was no cry of sea birds or insects or the like. The atmosphere was unnerving, making Ian feel like a child again, lost in the woods behind his parents house. He'd been six years old, and frightened, everything in those dark woods seemingly huge and menacing. Now, as he stood on that lonely beach, he experienced the same brand of childish terror even though he was a grown man.

As he made his way along the beach, he found no signs of life. On the contrary. He found the bloated body of that annoying marshal, minus his oversized cowboy hat and silent, dark-haired prisoner. The man had been loud, too loud, grating on Ian's nerves, and he'd tried his best to ignore him. But the cantankerous lawman had parked his wide ass beside Ian, shoving the handcuffed woman into the seat next to the window, and began talking as if he'd known everyone on the plane for years.

Now, the old fool lay muted in death.

Ian paused to get his bearings, his head pounding with such violence that he struggled against the mounting waves of nausea. He braced his hands on his knees, bending at the waist to breathe deeply. When he opened them again, he found he was seeing double, which wasn't a good sign when combined with head trauma.

He leveled his failing sight on the body sprawled on the beach and cursed. It was the lawman again. It seemed Ian had circled the island in its entirety, finding nothing. No crashed plane, or any sign of those dead or alive. Panic merged with the desire to vomit, and he grappled with madness for a moment.

In his delirium, he heard his mother's soothing voice whisper from somewhere in his past, inane words designed to help him speak properly during his childhood. Now, he often recited them when panic struck, the movement of his lips and tongue calming him during the dark times.

"A sailor went to sea to see what he could see. And all he could see was sea, sea, sea."

He chanted the words over and over again until his heart stopped racing and he located his mental footing. Flattening his palm over his taut stomach, he turned away from the beach. There was nothing for him on the shores and he might find someone further inland. Not to mention, it was getting darker, and he needed to locate some semblance of shelter for the night.

As he maneuvered through the rugged terrain of the forest, it didn't take long for the world around him to become coated in red. With every slow step he took, his delirium grew more potent. There were bouts of vomiting, making him cry out from the pain in his head. And when there was nothing else to puke, he was tormented by spells of anguishing dry heaves. His wound split open again, the blood trailing down the left side of his face, dripping into his eye, but he was too dazed to notice anything beyond the visual fog veining throughout his tunneling vision.

"Don't be a pussy, Ian," he said aloud, mimicking his stepfather. "Keep going, find shelter and don't be a fucking pussy."

He broke into hysterical laughter then, as he realized that he was going to die out there. If his stepfather saw him now, he'd lace his merriment with cruel words of derision. He often did that to Ian, making the boy grow into a silent and withdrawn man consumed by nightmares and moments of uncontrollable anxiety.

"Hey, Ben," he shouted manically into the night, "You were right. I am a pussy! You were right!"

Thunder reverberated in response and Ian sobered as the weight of it all settled in his guts. Fear penetrated his mind, and he tried the tongue-twisters that usually eased him. They weren't working, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up in the foliage and sleep even if it meant never waking up again.