Dream Again

Day 1

I wake to being shaken like dice in a palm. Things are flying around the cabin. Oxygen masks drop from ceiling and I can hear the rush of—air.
Air.
There's a hole in the side of the plane and people, things, papers, bags, clothes, everything is being sucked towards it. I fumble for the oxygen mask above my head, instinctively grappling for the yellow cup. I can't breath. I need to breath.
I clap it to my mouth just as Brandon is trying to help me. The screams are stopping as we lose air and oxygen masks take over.
And we are free falling. In a second I have the space to wonder what happened. The next thing I know I am so so so cold.
The water hits like a slap, i can feel the force of it like a two ton truck hitting me square in the back. The oxygen mask drops from my hands as we are plunged beneath the surface.
I'm out of the seatbelt in a moment, eyes adjusting to the dark and salt water, so cold, filling my mouth. There's thrashing, frothy water all around me. I feel instinctively from Brandon, and it takes my hand on his face to know he's dead. I can feel a split down his skull, he's out of the seat too but limp, some debris hit him? During the fall? I don't know. And I have no time.
I realease his body with a twinge of guilt even though there's nothing I can do now. I kick to the surface, gratefully gasping for air. I'm not a poor swimmer but I feel like I've been hit with a ton of bricks.
And that is the moment I realize that we crashed in the ocean. The plane crashed. In the ocean. I'm in the ocean.
"Hey—hey—keep your head up, okay? Breath," Miranda is treading water near me.
I obey, still struggling to lower my breathing. She's shaking with cold, hair plastered to her face.
"Swim! I can shore, that way—everyone is swimming that way," another passenger is to my left, equally freezing, but her voice is commanding. She wastes time raising an arm to point. Sure enough. The moonlight betrays a dark shape against the sky. Some sort of land.
"Okay—together—," I say.
"Take turns, I'll break the current smooth even kicks," the girl coaches, shaking ehr hair from her face, then she drops lower in the water and begins to swim, gracefully nearly, towards shore.
Miranda and I fall in behind her. I have the concept of smooth motions but not the practice. And my limbs feel like they're full of lead. I'm vaguely aware of the fact that I'll feel even worse once I'm not running on pure adreline rush and fear. Even seeing the shore is a miracle I'll take that.
Miranda moves in front to break the current, which is strong enough to drag me back one stroke for every two. I focus only on the slight splash ahead of me, that's all that can keep me alive right now, I can't even see shore.
I feel it before I see it. Cold sand beneath my feet is too much to even hope I hardly believe it. I hit it, dragging myself forward till I can collapse on my knees, shaking with effort, my clothes hanging dead weight around me. And I swear there's still blood on my hands.
The girls are similarly crouched, half laying, in the shallows, breathing heavily. Miranda is gagging, hand to her face. The other girl is jsut breathing, face set and determined.
"Okay, okay—is everyone okay?" Miranda asks, trying to compose herself, "I know—I know basic CPR."
"I'm okay," the girl breaths.
"Does—ah—anyone know where we are?" I ask. I hear nothing. No ambulances. Of course we're not off the coast of California. Are we? It's dark out. And—no. Oh. No.
"It was five hours into the flight, we're in the middle of the pacific," the girl breaths.
"Someone will, someone will come rescue us they'll know, know it went down," Miranda says, she's shaking.
"Come on, get out of the water," I'm freezing too, and she's nearly blue. Both of them are. As much as I don't want to I drag myself painfully to my feet, and move to help them. The beach is barely ten yards away.
"Thanks," hte girl says, as I give her hand up. She grips my sleeve our hands are cold and slip through the other's fingers. "River."
"What —oh sorry your. Name," I realize, slowly. Those drugs are still in me they're just at war with my adreline right now.
"Yeah my name," she almost laughs.
"Miranda," Miranda introduces herself, as we both help her up. We're all three trembling from the ordeal, including the icy cold swim.
"James, good to meet you, well not really but that's not personal," I mutter, feet sticking in the sand. My rubber sandles are long gone, I'm barefoot and squelching through the sand, each step heavier than the last.
We clear the water and collapse, shaking. Miranda leans on me and I instinctively put an arm around her. River sort of sits there for a moment, then leans against my other side, putting her arms around me. Our body heat is doing minimal good, but it's all we have.
"They'll come. They'll look for us. We'll wait here. We just wait here,' Miranda whispers.
I look up, drugged haze over my eyes. It T looks like twice as many stars as usual. I can feel my entire body shaking in cold and I wonder if this is hypothermia. Or just a dream. It feels all too real yet a nightmare would be more logical.
"There are probably people up on the island. They'll come," River says, leaning a little more against me, she's freezing.
"Yes," I say, softly. Because if we die here then at least I want them believing someone was coming to save us. I've never felt like anyone was coming to rescue me. Not in my life. The philosophers say faith in some unseen god is what makes us human. I'd rather be a human tonight than whatever I've been made.
Together we lay there shaking on the beach. Too sore and cold to move. I don't know if our body heat is a saving grace or ti's just prolonging our deaths. I look up at the stars and try not to care either way. Somehow, someway it will be sunrise.
I'm not conscious of dozing off but I must, because once I open my eyes the first brush of dawn is tenderly wrapping my face in the sweet warmth of sunlight. We must be facing east, the sun is rising right before us, a golden disk rising out of the now still water.
The girls stir in my arms, blessedly. Stiff and sore as I am but alive. The warmth of the sunlight is all we have to cling to as we try to stir. River doesn't open her eyes, head just lying on my shoulder.
"It's sunrise," I say, giving ehr a good squeeze. She stirs a little, trying to blink her eyes open.
Miranda crawls a few feet away to vomit. I go to help her, moving her hair from her face and putting an arm across her chest to hold her up as she loses her balance.
"Got you. You'll feel better now," I say, practically, tying her hair into a loose braid then tucking it in on itself.
She sits up, nodding, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She touches her hair to affirm it's back. It is.
"How'd you know how to that?" She asks, almost cracking a smile.
"I had a sister," I say, simply.
"We ah—we should take these clothes off, um, we're going to freeze," River says. She's wearing a jean jacket which she sheds. She has shoes on, Miranda and I are both barefoot.
I obey, taking off my soaking hoodie and tying it around my waist. we're not about to completely strip but the outer layer was keeping me colder than anything. The sunlight isn't even as warm as it is comforting. Now in the early rays I can make out the sillouhette of the island behind us. And the vastness of the ocean round us. Miles of endless, now still, water. And no sign of rescue. Not a boat. Nothing.
But there are people gathered down the beach. Among the driftwood and wreckage. It only takes a moment to determine they're fellow castaways, and therefore not actual help.
"Definitely the worst flight I've ever had," River says, completely deadpan.
I actually feel myself laughing.
"Oh god," Miranda grins.
"Yeah zero stars, never flying with them again," I say, which only sets River laughing.
"That is so sick," Miranda says, but she's laughing too.
We're met by a party as we limp towards the others. I don't know what good it will do but maybe someone has a sattelite phone? I realize how unlikely that is. Three men walk towards us, two I recognize as some of the flight staff. The third is in the remains of a suit, white shirt half unbuttoned and clearly stained, still wet and clinging to his skin. Blonde curls in neat haircut and clean shaven, he's clearly business class, and vaguely familiar. The businessman who walked in behind us because he waited to board taking a phone call. A stock broker or something probably? He smiles warmly at us, clearly the leader of the party.
"Hello, we're gathering survivors at the south end of the beach," he says, hands on hips, unthreatening, "Are any of you injured?"
"No," River says.
"No we're fine," Miranda says, quickly, glancing at us to affirm we are.
"Family? We're organizing by seat on the plane, to help everyone find each other," he says, gesturing to us generally, clearly trying to determine if we are in fact related or just clinging to each other.
"No, no, just seatmates," Miranda says.
"I was travelling alone," River says.
"Me too—James, your uncle—," Miranda realizes, a flash of concern in her eyes.
"He died on the way down," I say, hearing my voice raw and hollow. Brandon's lifeless body, sinking into the depths, blood still pouring from his head. I can't help but feel some residual grief. I didn't know him well but surely he had some friends or family looking for him? I bite back the urge to correct that he wasn't actually my uncle. It doesn't matter.
"You're sure?" The man asks.
"Positive," I say, flatly.
"Stay at the end, south beach there. We heard some noises from the woods last night and the safest way to be spotted is to remain on the beach here where rescuers can see us. We'll go forage and try to see if there's a research station or anything in groups. But for now it's been several hours it's not likely the island is inhabited," he says, voice dropping in sympathy as he delivers the news. It's obvious though. Of course it's not inhabited. Anyone would have seen the plane fall from the sky.
"South Pacific has a lot of uninhabited islands—probably researchers will come, and they'll trace the plane by the black box," River says, coolly.
"Exactly, so perhaps a day or two at most. For now we're staying in groups of ideally three, with one member that might need more care we've got a lot of injured, children missing parents that type of thing. Sorry I'm Max, Max Hereford," he says, hand to his chest. The name fits his crisp London accent. "You're—,"
"River Knighty," River says, glancing at us with some suspicion in her eyes.
"Miranda Nguyen," Miranda says, gripping my arm.
"James you said?" Max looks at me, a beat after I should have already answered.
"Yes, Barry," I say, "Southern accent was throwing me, Exeter?"
"You're very good," Max says, unnecessarily amused I located his accent, "London now these days. Is that a York accent I hear?"
"Manchester," I say. It is a Manchester accent but I haven't lived there in years, just retained the accent. So he's been out of England for some time if he can't pick out one of the most recognizable accents. New York stock exchange? Looks like the type. But I don't want to talk about me so I say, "silver isle set in the silver sea, can't say I'm fond of this one?"
"I'm fond of land at the moment," Max says, generally, oh he's more of a sales man? Oozing charisma even in these circumstances. Very calm for someone who was making an urgent phone call right before we took off. Some CEO or something? Yes those hands don't have callouses. And his shoes are probably about 400 pounds, the soft leather is clearly well made even covered in sand as he is.
"If all of you are in as good a health as any of us, take a position there on the beach, we're looking for anything useful washing up, and we'll start gaterhing wood for signal fires," Max says, reasonably. It's admittedly a good enough plan and even if he is the sort of guy to wear a, I'm guess five thousand pound watch, someone does need to organize the survivors.
"We're fine," Miranda nods, "We can—if someone's hurt we can help them."
"Yeah there's three of us," River says, tugging a little on her wet shirt.
"How old are you?" Max asks, frowning a little.
"Sixth form," I say, wondering if he'll understand the grade system in the UK. The Americans do numbers and if he was educated in America then he will have little idea what I'm talking about.
"I'm sixteen," River says, glancing at me.
"Oh so you're happy to be on an island then missing A-levels?" Max says, cracking a crooked, definitely endearing smile.
"Not exactly," I say, even though I know it was meant to be a joke. So he did go to school in the UK. Eaton? I'm betting Eaton.
"We'll be fine, like I said we can help someone else," Miranda says.
"Brilliant. Go ahead and get comfortable as possible there at the end of the beach. We've got some backpacks washed up. If you do find something please share it with the group, right now we're focusing on medications and spare clothes. Hopefully rescue planes will be by before nightfall but if not we'll be starting fires," Max says.
"We can do that," Miranda says.
"If there's no planes by the afternoon then we'll get a group together to go into the island, see if there is a research station or anything. But it could be dangerous so that's not quite yet," Max says, reassuringly.
"Yeah, they know where we are," Miranda reasons.
We follow Max's direction and move down the beach towards the end of the group of survivors. I'm exhausted and the soreness is hitting me, so I sink to the sand, staring out at the water. My head is spinning and by my fuzzy calculations I'm coming off drugs I've been on for about six months. I want to crawl into a soft bed, put headphones in, and sleep knowing there's food in the fridge and an a/c blasting. A luxury now that I was hoping I'd half achieve in a cheap hotel room in LA.
"I'm sorry, about your uncle," River says, looking over at me. Hollow eyes that speak of pain. She wasn't travelling alone by choice. She's wearing a few heavy necklaces. Oh. Crematory necklaces.
"Thank you it's—he wasn't like really my uncle. He was like a family friend type of thing, just travelling with me, because, I'd been sick," I say.
"Do you need—pills or something? Like we should tell Max if the others found something that can help—," Miranda says, concerned.
They're only being nice I bite back the urge to become annoyed at the probing.
"No, I'm fine, it's like mono I'm really better now hence going home," I say, simply, I don't want them to worry and I'll be fine.
"My cousin had that," River says, sympathetically, tugging at her necklaces.
"Here," I strip off my shirt and lay it on the sand, "let's try to dry these out. We'll be more comfortable tonight."
"Yeah, um, you're about to see me in a sports bra, so," Miranda takes off her shirt.
"Well we're on a beach," I say, dryly.
"This is why I fly in my favorite jacket. I will look cool when I am on CNN," River says, laying out her jean jacket.
"Everyone should have a cool jacket," I say.
"Right? It's required," she wipes her face with one hand, not taking off her tank top but shedding a band t-shirt. "I'm so fucking thirsty."
"If there's trees and stuff there's fresh water up on the island," I point out, "I'll go look."
"No, Max said to stay here or go in groups, he was right," Miranda says, "We can't split up we don't know what's up there."
"I mean, if it's people it's fine," I say, "whatever language they speak I htink it's pretty obvious that we're stranded and need help. Plus we need water. We'll dehydrate in under three days without it, in this sun. I'm going to take a wild guess and say both of you have people waiting for you back at home. I don't. Sob story you don't need I'm in state care, my mum's an addict and my sister's dead. If someone is going to be goared by a wild boar it might as well be me."
"It does matter—you can't—," River begins.
"And yet—not really, look this isn't suicidal it's practical. And if rescuers come I totally trust you to tell them where I am okay?" I ask, holding up my hands, "I'll go with a couple of other people from up there, premium class."
"Okay—he's right we should find water and split into parties, you and I will find firewood I know how to build a fire," Miranda says, "But you don't have any shoes."
"Neither do you, so I'm fine really I've been in Australia I go barefoot all the time," I say, dismissively.
"If you're not back by noon we'll follow," River compromises.
"I'll be back, my only good quality is I show up again and again like a bad penny," I say, getting a half smile out of River.
"I'll go see if anyone else wants to go, maybe premium class has some water bottles or something to fill," I say.
The rest of the survivors are clustered in similar little groups around the beach. Some are just weeping, many are more practically airing out clothes and trying to comfort one another. I easily spot Max, he's one of the few standing and is clearly organizing a bonfire. I wonder in my head if he was voted 'most likely to be running the place in a week if stranded on a desert island' by his graduating class of Oxford. I'm guessing it's Oxford I'd like to know if I'm right but I realize it doesn't really matter. But if it is Oxford there's no way he'll get through another conversation without mentioning it.
"We're thirsty down there in economy, I'm going into the island to try to find water," I say, walking up.
"We heard strange noises last night, it's probably not safe. Wild boar, that manner of thing, small amounts of salt water are safe for now while we work to distill it," Max says, kindly enough, gesturing to some sort of plastic bag process they're setting up.
"But a spring would be faster we have what a hundred people? I'm saying I'm going to go look, if someone else is feeling antsy we can go as a group. But If some bottles or something washed up that'd be great," I say, rolling my shoulders a little. He's a tough type, big business. I ahve to be submissive. But I am right. Miranda was throwing up on the plane and she did here, she's going to be dehydrating faster, same with anyone who may be injured or menustrating. Reverse osmosis I'm sketchy on but I'm guessing it'll be droplets over the course of hours.
"We're not endangering anyone right now, I can't let you go in good conscience not when a rescue plane could be here in a few hours," Max says.
"And people with medical conditions could dehydrate or suffer permanent damage in a few hours," I say, quietly.
Max sighs in agreement, looking at the throngs of passengers gathered on the beach.
"If you want to go," one of the flight attendants shrugs. Ivan. He served premium class so came ashore with Max? They've been together the whole time.
"It's simply not safe you're a minor," Max says.
"Not in the UK I'm not, how long have you been in the states?" I frown. Sixth form in the UK means that I'm over sixteen, and therefore legally an adult. In the USA I'd be still a minor so he's spent a lot of time in the US.
"We're likely in US territory now and the point of it is I can't let you risk yourself like that," Max says.
"Not to be terribly dark, but it doesn't matter if I dont' come back. The man you saw with me was my ucnle, he was taking me to live with him I've been hospitalized. He died in the crash and he was the last family I had. I'm a better risk than someone else—whose family might be looking for them," I say.
"I don't remember you—what was your seat?" Ivan frowns.
"37D, and E," I answer, smoothly, "Economy. You were up front weren't you?"
"Yes dealing with rich, Oxford brats," Max laughs. So I was right.
"Excuse me, I can't help but overhearing," a man, probably mid fifties, walks up. He's red from the sun already but otherwise not much worse for the wear, "I'll go and look for water as well."
"Really everyone does not need to be wandering off into the woods, when we don't know what's out there," Max cautions.
"My boy, I'm insulin dependent. In two days I will die with or without water. If entering the wood will help my son and others to survive till help reaches—well I'm glad to do what I can," he says, holding up a hand to Max.
"As you will. No matter what you've found turn around before noon, it would be dangerous to be in those woods, after dark," Max says, looking at us both.
"We will," I nod, glancing at the man, "Do we have bottles or something we can fill with water?"
"You don't need to carry anything additional, if you find a fresh water source lead the rest of us to it," Max suggests.
"Yes I've not found anything helpful—nor shoes," the man says, looking at my bare feet.
"I'm fine," I say, picking my way through the thick, soft sand, "Could be worse. Could be dead."
"Quite," he says. Transatlantic accent. Nice clothes but dressed down. American on business or pleasure.
A boy hurries to follow us, dark hair and sopping clothes like the rest of us, he clings to his father's hand. Maybe ten.
"My son, Luke. I'm Adrian Tory," the man says, not concerned the boy is coming with us.
"James," I say, waving a little.
"Hi," the boy says, quietly.
"Are there really—like could there be something dangerous out here?" I ask, scanning the trees. It's dense foliage, and i can hear the squeak of birds. Nothing terribly sinister.
"Some islands like this have wild boar, that manner of thing. If we're lucky we can find an old WWII fort or something, many were abandoned in the South Pacific," Adrian elaborates.
"Oh, that's something then—don't suppose they'd have sattelite radios or anything," I say.
"Is that what we had?" Luke asks, quietly, tugging on his father's arm.
"Yes, in our checked baggage. If some of that washes ashore then well, we're in luck. But for now they're bound to be sending out search planes, each airplane has a black box in it, that emits a signal. They'll know just when they lost us," Adrian says, comfortingly. So much so I nearly take comfort in it. He's right. I've read about that. In all logic they'll be looking for us soon, and he'll get his insulin and countless others will get thier medications. I wonder the odds Or ratio rather of people on the flight needing, lifesaving, daily medication, then push it aside. More than a bit macbre. And probably quite unnecessary.
"Did you lose someone in the crash?" Adrian asks, kindly.
"Not—my uncle he was sort of a distant relative, died. I didn't know him that well," I admit, "Not like, everybody else I'd expect. And as you probably overheard my conversation with Max, I don't have anyone I'm going home to."
"Oh I am sorry," Adrian says.
"Where are you going to go?" Luke asks.
"Foster care—system. It's a bit complicated in my case," I say, dismissively, "What about you? Where's home?"
"Back to Boston," Luke says.
"Yes, I teach ornithology at Harvard. This was a research, and pleasure trip," Adrian says, glancing at me one more time, like memorizing my face. Or trying to place it. I look away, back at the dense undergrowth.
"Did you see Sydney?" Luke asks me, brightening up a bit.
"I did, my uncle took me to see that. The opera house is amazing isn't it?" I ask.
"We went to a show," Luke says. His pupils have been dilated, wide with shock. Now I can see him visibly relaxing a ltitle. I'm not his age but another young person chatting to him is clearly soothing, for what it's worth.
"What did you see?" I ask.
"Cinderella," he says, quietly.
"Oh that is one of my favorites. Is she your favorite princess?" I ask.
He nods.
"why?" I ask, climbing over some brush then pausing to help both of them, holding a few branches back. I'm not sure how much good it does.
"Because she's brave, I guess," Luke says, biting his lip, "did you see her?"
"No I misssed that one. There was one I did catch but not that," I say.
"Which was it?" Adrian asks.
For once I contemplate before I lie, and ignore the falsehoods that readily spring ot my tongue, "Eugene Onegin, have you heard it?"
"A yes—don't look at me like that Luke, it's a bit long for a ten year old," Adrian laughs.
"It was something—especially there you know? Doesn't ring the same as listening in your car, does it?" I ask, mostly Luke.
"No, it was so pretty," he says, quietly, looking down at his now muddy jeans.
"Well, looks like a perfectly average forest, what we heard last night was probably just the birds," Adrian says.
"Your birds," Luke says, smiling again.
"Nature's birds," his father corrects, clearly fondly, "And they don't mean us any harm."
"You—heard noises as well then?" I ask. Max mentioned them but I don't remember anything. I don't count myself as reliable witness after the crash and subsequent swim.
"It was like a monster, something, really big, moving the brush, I think I saw eyes," Luke says.
"Likely the birds we disturbed, perhaps some monkeys as well," Adrian says.
"It feels a bit weird, doesn't it? How this island can have, birds and animals and things just living out in the middle of nothing at all," I say, looking back at the vast ocean behind us.
"How can they live?" Luke asks his father.
"They don't need man. They'll have either been brought, by sailors at some point when the Pacific Islanders used these islands for fishing then naviagated on home—or potentially, they've simply existed here, a perfect ecosystem, for hundreds or rather thousands of years, untouched," Adrian says.
"I'll take your word for it, since I was failing remedial biology last time I had wifi," I quip.
"My dad does bird talks, all over, we've even been to England," Luke says.
"Oh that old place?" I ask, smiling.
Adrian likely knows fully well that I have an english accent, "We were at Oxford last summer."
"You always go with your dad? Help him with his talks?" I ask Luke.
He nods so hard his hair flops, "I'm going to study—reptiles. Someday. And go to Madagascar."
"Not enough poisonous animals for you in Australia then?" I ask, amused.
"I want to study Komodo dragons," Luke explains.
"I can't wait to read your book on them then, maybe make their breath less smelly? Design them breath mints?" I ask, kneeling down. The ground is not only moist, but it's nearly muddy.
Luke giggles.
"Hello, there," I move some of the brush to reach a small rivit in the earth. Clearly run off of water.
"Might be a pool, for rainwater. Or better a spring," Adrian concurs, nodding a little.
"Does that mean people?" Luke asks, hopefully.
"We shall see," Adrian says, but his face looks grim. He's sweating and twice I've seen him clutch hsi side. I slow to match his pace as Luke runs on ahead of to eagerly clear the way of what unbrush he thinks he can tug on.
"When we get to the spring the two of you wait there," I say, under my breath.
"I don't know what you mean," he says, coolly.
"There's spittle on your collar and I saw you clutch your stomach twice, you've probably already been vomiting. If you've been insulin dependent over ten years which at your age is likely, then you're probalby already going into DKA, which means you're going to become rapidly dehydrated as your body runs out of glucose. You're type 2 aren't you?" I ask.
"Which means death is iminenet in the next twenty four hours. Failing rudimentary biology you say?" He asks, coolly.
"My sister died of ESRD after a kidney transplant failed," I say, coolly, "Spend enough time in hospitals you learn all sorts of ways to die, and not a lot of ways to get through Year ten with your brain still in order."
"I'm very sorry," he says, gently, "I'm aware of my condition. At the moment my only hope is immediate rescue or finding my insulin for perhaps a bit sooner rescue."
"The plane med kits usually carry emergency glucose injections, we can't have been far from shore, if it's drivable maybe some of us could at least get those, if not your bags."
"My bag has a satellite radio. If you can get to it, we can call for help. It's crates, blue pelican cases with a captain America luggage tag," he says.
"When we get back, I'll look," I say, nodding, "Drink I know you won't keep much down but something is better than nothing."
He nods in confession, and we say nothing more as we near LUke, who is bouncing.
"Look!" He cries, happily, pointing at a small pool, fed by a stream.
Fresh water.
I fall to my kneels to drink, not at all caring about water born diseases.
"We should boil this, for the record," I say, scooping it up with my ahnds. My dry mouth isn't even soothed by cool, muddy water.
"Agreed, however," Adrian leans on me and I help him to kneel. Luke waits for his father's permission before drinking. We kneel in silence, bringing our cupped hands to our mouths greedily. My feet are sore and bloody, I'm shirtless and probably sunburnt. And this is the best water I've tasted in my life.
"Right, next step, I'm going to find your luggage, or try," I say, water dripping down my face, "Luke do you think you can help show the others where the pool is?"
Luke nods, hard.
Adrian looks at me in some concession.
"Okay, we'll go back," I say, taking Adrian's arm to help him up.
We track quickly back down to the beach with the good news. Max is organizing the washed up luggage, and quickly diverts to send groups into the forest to drink, with Adrian and Luke guiding them.
I dodge all of that, going to search the bags. Some have washed up on shore which would make this all to easy.
"We're asking that you not disturb anything that isn't yours. Anything unclaimed by nightfall we'll search for supplies," Max explains, so unnecessarily, "I understand you don't have—any family?"
"No," I say, a bit perturbed, "I'm looking for my—and my seatmates, stuff." It's an easy lie he has no idea if Adrian and Luke sat near me. And they told me what they're looking for or rather I should be looking for. "Did any of the airplane med kits wash up?"
"No. Two of the stronger swimmers went to see if the wreck is at all visible. Nothing. The shelf drops off, not far past that sand bar," Max gestures, but he's looking at me.
"right, thanks," I say, backing away.
He watches me go, then looks back finally out at the ocean. It is then, only then, that I see what was bothering me about his eyes.
They're not dialated. Everyone else, they're making nervous gestures, repateive rocking or fidgeting, eyes dialated from shock. That's biological. When a person gets a rush of adreline such as wehn their plane blows up, the body is flooded with it. One of the consequences is dialated pupils, a flight or fight response is indiated, and the pupils dilate for better vision. That will wear off probably in twenty four or forty eight hours as all the survivors quit getting adreline.
Except he hasn't had it all day. Not this morning, nothing. His manner is casual I thought it was a front. Admittedly first responders can supress such fear, and sometimes people with significant mental illness can disassociate completely to save themselves from such shock responses. Also certain, shall we say personality types, are much much less likely to exhibt normal responses to stressors, up to and including total apathy.
And seeing the sun reflecting the truth in his eyes makes me fear for my own. Everyone must see it written on me too. I put my hand to my face, gradually realizing that I'm no different than he is. Masked and calm. Responding just a note off and being okay, th problem being no one in their right mind would be okay with this.
"I think I know you from somewhere? Have we met?" Max asks, looking over into my eyes.
"On the plane," I say, helpfully.
"You weren't in premium class."
"Correct so I walked past you," I say, calmly, "You had to have seen me we were slow to walk on, we all had to stop a dozen times."
"Yes, and of course you looked—exactly as you do now," he says. Of course I didn't walk past him. He got on late. But he doesn't know that.
My facial expression is identical. But then again, so his. Just like he got off the phone from whatever business deal he was making.
"What do you call home, James? What's that like?" Max asks, staring back out at the water.
"Failing sixth form, waking up each day to remember my parents are dead. And my sister's gone. And my big brother doesn't speak to me. And watching cartoons when I'm meant to be in bed. And. Above all else. And I'm alone," I say.
"Well. You're not anymore are you?" Max asks, smiling a little, "This is—the Event of a lifetime. There will be the you that was before. The you now. And the you after. And after and before shall never meet. You'll never be the same."
"What did you hear? In the woods?" I ask,taking a step back, "You didn't think it was a boar, did you?"
"No, it was—larger. Something—I don't know," he says, frowning.
"You dont' say those words a lot. And mean them," I guess.
"You'd be frightened as well. It would probably do you good. A lot of good in fact. To be properly frightened, of somthing greater than you," Max says, dipping his head to get the sunlight from it, shadows falling across his pale eyes.
" 'Be not afraid. For the isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that give delight, and hurt not'," I quote.
"Spoken by the monster Caliban. Who is in fact a monster, and only is mild to them, because he was tamed by Prospero," Max says, "Odd quote for a poor boy to be quoting off the top of his head."
"And for you to know," I say, "And Caliban was a slave as I recall. Prospero enslaved him and Areil."
"I never liked that play. I saw it as a boy and wondered—why did the wizard, have to give up his magic at the end? For it all to end happily, the only solution was for Prospero to give us his power. As a compromise because the others didn't like it. I was never very fond of that," Max says.
"That depends on if you're on the side of the wizard. Or the monster,' I say.
"And whose side do you choose then?" Max asks, a glint of amusement, and something like desire upon his soft features.
"The monster. It's fiction. A play. A few hours escape. So I'll always choose the monster," I say, feeling myself smile and not forcing it away.
"To each his own then," Max says, backing away, "You must be very tired. And in such shock."
"Yes," I say, we both know it isn't true.
"Good luck—with the bags," he says, gesturing to the bags and scraps laid out upon the shore.
I wait until he continues along the beach to start looking. Carefully, checking each name tag for anythign familiar. The names are mostly washed out. But the blue pelican case would be easy to spot, so would a med kit.
But it's nothing. Torn up backpacks, plane parts, and ruined clothes. I find no shoes t hat would fit me I assume someone sly already claimed any of any real value. I skim through, not seeing Miranda's bag either, I'd know what that looked like.
I'm not even thinking to look for it, but Brandon's bag nearly stops me in my tracks. The black, standard issue military looking thing that'd been attached to him as long as I've known him these past two weeks. I kneel, hands shaking.
I unzip it. A change of clothes for him and one for me. A binder with some of his work stuff. I tear the pages out, they are mostly illegible but those that have some text I soak in salt water till the ink runs, then I let the tide pull them away.
Nothing. A few ruined likely snack bars. I pocket those for myself and the girls. Nothing of any value or worth. Ah yes. The back technology pocket reveals his tablet. I saw him key in the code once, the water poof case had better have saved it.
It did. No signale and the screen is mostly fried. It's basically no good and the battery is at 2% so likely the water did get to it? Apple gets credit though the thing is still running.
I click into emaisl. Our itninerary. Nothing. Nothing of interest. I delete all of it.
Then I tap messages. A couple of reservations and—
My mother.
Repeated texts. Asking when we land. Can she come see me. Can she talk to me?
I want to throw up.
She was trying to see me? She did—want to come? In the end here she was going to be there. And she watched on CNN how my plane disappeared into the pacific. And it was all too late. Such tragedy in that. And I lived long enough to learn it was true and we're only a million miles apart. I like to think that past all the screaming fights and late nights talking and days when we tried not to love each other at all, that there was something there. She didn't want to see me again to shake me one more time. That she once loved me somehow even if it was before i was born. Some doctor said 'the baby's healthy' and she picked out my name and painted nursery walls and even if I wasn't there we were both happy I was going to be in the world.
But it's gone and there's nothing left. Like a song who's name you can't remember. I go first. She's the one who has to bury me, not the other way around like she always wanted but we never thought would happen. But she doesn't even have my bones to put in a box in some lonely cemetary, or ashes, no rememant she could try to love again. I'm disappearing.
I tap into settings, carefully resetting the iPad, and then I fling it as hard as I can into the ocean. Yes. I'm disappearing now. It doesn't matter she was going to come. It was too late.