"i don't give up easily,
'specially when there's
a real pretty girl involved."
"cute, merridew.
that's real cute."
When the pilot's daughter crash-lands on a desert island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, all she wants to do is survive long eno...
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...hands...feet...arms...legs...my head is so heavy...where is the rest of me...
I opened my bleary eyes and tried to look around. The world tilted a little, and something prickled and stabbed at my forearm.
I slowly sat up and stared at it. A long, bloody gash stared back at me, the little stitches of my shirt and blazer seeping into the edges of the wound.
Gritting my teeth, I pulled off my blazer, hissing in pain as the stitches peeled away from the wound. With my fingernail, I gently pulled the stitches of my shirt away from the wound, the pain traveling up my arm in prickling shudders. With one hand, I tightly wrapped the blazer around the wound to try and stop the bleeding.
Holding my forearm close against my body to keep the blazer from coming undone, I stood up and looked around. It looked as if I was on some kind of a tropical island-the sky was surprisingly clear and blue with a few wispy clouds fluffing their way across the sky, and most of the island is inhabited by a wide range of tropical plants and trees that I'd never seen before.
The real question was how I ended up here.
I tried to think back: I was on a plane, going to California, and everyone was singing "Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall". Then what?
I stared down at my blazer-wrapped arm, the realization dawning on me.
The plane must've crashed and ended up here. Most likely in the middle of nowhere.
It didn't explain how I was out of the plane. If I had woken up, I must've been knocked out and remained on the plane. Someone had to have dragged me out of it.
Which meant that someone else survived the plane crash.
My heart gave a hopeful leap as I remembered my father telling me about his pilot training a while back. He was the pilot of the plane-he would know what to do!
"Father?" I tried calling out, but my voice came out a little raspy. Clearing my throat, I said, "Father?" Holding my injured arm, I ventured through the trees and past the plants. "Father?" Where could he be? Was he still with the plane? Where was the plane?
"Father?" I walked farther into the forest, clutching my arm. "Father?"
No answer.
"Father?" I looked around, trying to pick up some clues as to where the airplane might've crashed. Maybe a broken tree, or a singed leaf or something.
"Hello?" Maybe if I found someone else on the island-perhaps the person who dragged me out of the plane-I might have a better chance of finding my father. Unless the plane exploded and somehow I got blasted out of the plane with nothing but a scratch.
"Father?" I began to panic a little bit. What if I was the only one stuck on the island? The only outdoor experience I'd ever had was climbing trees when I was really little. I knew next to nothing about how to survive in the wilderness.
