Lost

Chapter 5: The Struggle Begins

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Salma staggered back on her feet, tripped and landed hard on her backside. She continued screaming like a crazed banshee, scuttling away from the dead looking body on all fours. It was only when her back hit a tree did she pause, frightenedly eyeing the corpse, shaking, trembling and scared out of her wits.

The body slowly spun on its axis, first to the left, then to the right. Salma was frozen to her spot as her frantic eyes did a quick once-over of the danger swinging a few feet above the ground. Through her fear tinted gaze, she took in the short hair, broad shoulders and lean built, concluding that it was a 'he'.

But was he dead, or alive?

Still freaked out, Salma shakily got to her feet to investigate. Almost her age, tall, well-built and bloodied; he had dark hair that was disheveled and dirty, his face and limbs were badly bruised, and clothes, torn and filthy. Salma could not help but think he had taken a tumble down the mountain. She peered at his features curiously, trying to place his face that seemed oddly familiar. Salma eyed his clothing again. A navy blue T and dark jeans?

"Hold on a minute . . ." Salma murmured as she looked up, using her hands to shield her eyes from the sun that peeked through the break in the canopy. She took note of the torn jeans caught by a branch that he was hanging from, and last piece of the puzzle fell in its place.

"Oh no," Salma groaned, dropping her hands, "Not you!"

She was unable to keep her disappointment at bay. Of all the people on that bus, she had to have him follow her on her fall down the slope?

"How?! . . but when? Why?!" she spluttered, taking a step away from him.

Salma shook her head in disbelief, grappling with the idea that it was actually Zayn Harris hanging from the tree, upside down. With her arms firmly crossed over her chest, she eyed him miserably. A drop of blood oozed out of what look like a fresh cut on Zayn's temple and trickled into his messy hair. It snapped Salma out of her thoughts, forcing her to catch up on the fact that her displeasure of it being Zayn was misplaced and uncalled for, and that if not dead already, the person in front of her could be dying.

Deeply unsettled, Salma hastily stuck two shaky fingers above his nose. Her frantic eyes flitted to his chest in the hopes of seeing its steady rise and fall. A feeble gust of warm air fanned against her fingers. Heaving a sigh, Salma let the relief wash over her.

For a moment or two, Salma just paced around him, twiddling with her trembling fingers, having no clue what to do. She was alone and hurt, and now there was an unconscious guy hanging from a tree with his wrong side up. Through her confused thoughts, she tried to remember his name.

"Zayn?" she called softly. "Mr. Harris?"

The dark haired boy did not respond. Salma could feel her panic built up. Crouching next to his ear, she called him, louder this time. No success. Her eyes fell on a stick nearby. Instinctively, she picked it up and foolishly poked his stomach.

"Zayn! Wake up, Zayn?" She tried again. When he did not respond, she got frustrated, "Drama Queen! Wake up!"

Her gut coiled with unease at his silence. It was getting dark. She had to get back to the shelter. Already having enough on her plate, for her, Zayn regaining his consciousness would mean one less problem.

"Oh, come on!" she groaned, throwing the stick away. He was obviously not going to wake up like this, she realized.

Muttering under breath, Salma weighed her options. She knew she could not leave Zayn for dead, and staying the night out in the forest was not an option. She had to get him down. Apparently he was up in that tree until a few minutes ago when one of the branches holding him had snapped.