The Wall Between Our Worlds

Chapter One (Part Two)

Trep's attention narrowed down to the next step he needed to take to survive.

He had blacked out when the flyer made impact, but he wasn't out for more than a second or two—and it was a good thing, too, because icy water was invading the cockpit in a mad rush. He fumbled with the restraints of the pilot's seat, his breathing ragged and his heart ricocheting off the sides of his chest. When the restraints released, he splashed to the door and jerked on the handle.

The door refused to open. It had been warped in the impact, leaving a small gap at the bottom that was nowhere near big enough for Trep to squeeze through.

Muttering a curse, he leapt toward the toolbox that was attached to one of the flyer walls. It had only a few basic instruments in it, but maybe— Before he reached the toolbox, his leg scraped against something under the rapidly rising water. For half a second, the pain stole his breath, but then he pushed on. There would be time for pain later. If he survived. And he would survive.

Not drowning. Not drowning was his priority now. Then he could worry about the blood oozing from his leg, the stabbing sensation whenever he took a breath, and the throbbing in his head.

Wiping away some of the blood that was trickling into his eye from a cut on his forehead, he opened the toolbox and removed a long bar that was normally used for rerouting energy throughout the flyer's systems during testing exercises. But maybe it would be strong enough to pry the door open.

He dove under the water and inserted the bar in the gap, bracing it against the doorframe. He pulled, his whole body trembling with the effort.

Come on, he begged the door.

It gave a little. He pulled harder.

Under much protest, the weakened door bent until the gap was wide enough for Trep to squeeze through—maybe. He didn't have time to make it any wider, though. The frigid water had claimed all but a few inches at the top of the cockpit.

After taking in one last desperate breath, he dove, squirming as he tried to slip through the gap.

His uniform caught on the door's jagged edge.

His lungs ached as he first tried to take off the jacket. When it proved too difficult to worm out of it, he yanked, tearing the fabric. When he got free and propelled himself through the opening, the mangled door sliced into his thigh.

He kicked himself to the surface and found himself in a slow-moving river. The bank was only a few dozen feet away, so he started swimming, telling his body to stop complaining. He would make it. He would make it.

I'm going to make it.

Every breath, every movement, tested his limits.

I'm going to see my family again.

The current was stronger than he had thought at first.

I didn't survive the crash to die here.

No, the current really wasn't that strong. Trep's body was failing.

The river bank was only yards away. It taunted him.

Now it was only feet away.

Why am I so tired? All at once, he became aware of more than the injuries in his leg. His head throbbed a thousand times worse than it had a second ago. He was sure his ribs were broken in more than a few places.

He felt like he had fallen from the sky without a proper emergency kit—which he had. Seriously, whoever had inspected his flyer was going to lose their job.

Finally.

He crawled onto the muddy bank and collapsed, every cell in his body exhausted. He couldn't stop, though. He was bleeding, and he was bleeding badly.

He forced himself to sit up, and he tore a length of fabric from his uniform, which he tied as tightly as he could around the gash in his thigh. Maybe it would hold. Maybe he wouldn't bleed to death.

Shivering from the river's icy grip, he tried to get to his feet—but he couldn't. There was no way. He wasn't a doctor, but even his fuzzy mind knew that he was done for now.

He passed out.

*

1.4

It took Krimson a few hours to find what was left of the flying machine. Debris littered the banks of the Orchid River, much of it twisted and bent and crushed to oblivion by the impact. She scanned the area, suppressing her curiosity about the gadgets that were strewn across the ground. People. She needed to find the people.

There. She jogged to the man, who was unconscious in the mud next to the river. Unconscious—or dead. She placed her fingers on his neck and hoped for a pulse. There. It was weak, but it existed. Blood covered half his face and matted his hair—his blond hair. Interesting. Krimson had never seen anyone with blond hair, though she had heard that some Builders had it.

She checked for injuries elsewhere, and she found plenty of them. At least a few of his ribs were broken, and she guessed there was internal bleeding as well. There was also a huge gash in his leg. It looked like he had stayed conscious long enough to wrap that injury, but the blood had already soaked through the cloth.

Krimson started working, sending a silent prayer to the Creator. Maybe He would spare this Builder's life. If the Builder deserved to live. Krimson hoped he would survive. He might have something interesting to say. Plus, she didn't really feel like burying a body.

First, Krimson forced a dribble of Crior tea down his throat. It would help to mend his insides, and it had a full-body painkilling effect that he would need when he woke up. Then she stripped off his pants and cleaned and stitched the gash on his thigh—doing her best to ignore his undergarments and the shape beneath them. She cleaned up the wound on his head. Last, she applied a healing poultice to the bruises across his body.

When she had done what she could for him, she put her hands under his arms and dragged him onto dryer ground. She finished peeling off his wet clothes, thanking the Creator that he was unconscious. If he had been alert, she might have fainted. As it was, she was already blushing fiercely. She covered him with the small blanket she kept in her backpack, built a small fire, and then settled in to wait.

She kept a close eye on him as the hours passed, her mind buzzing.

If the Elders found out what she had done, she would be in big trouble.

If the Builder woke up and turned out to be as awful as some people believed they were, she might have a fight on her hands. What had he been doing in the East, anyway?

She was curious about his hair, too. A few times, she touched it and noted that it was finer and softer than her own hair. Was that because it had less color? Women from other tribes colored their hair sometimes. Krimson wondered if she could color her hair to make it golden.

What if more Builders came looking for him?

Who was he?

A thousand questions swirled around her mind as time wore on.

In the evening, he started to show signs of alertness. There was a little groan, a slight frown, a few pained movements. With every sign of life, Krimson's breath became shorter and her nerves grew more intense. Was he going to wake up?

More hours crept by. Krimson constructed a stretcher to help her carry him—if he survived long enough to go anywhere.

She shivered as night descended and the temperature dropped. It wasn't freezing by any means, but her fingers and nose were cold. She scooted closer to the fire to keep the chill at bay.

Finally, he opened his eyes.