Survival of the Fittest

Chapter Nine - The Lawyer

Birds. Chirruping insects. Raindrops...dripping, dripping, dripping. Distant thunder. Nothing familiar. No engine's drone. No murmured conversations. No snoring, soft or otherwise.

The musty scent of damp earth, rotting vegetation, jet fuel, and...something else, something my addled brain can't define. It smells the way a penny tastes, like fresh, struck copper, but for the cloyingly sweet undertone wriggling just beneath its surface. My stomach twists, though my mind remains void of recognition.

I groan and force my eyes to open.

The light is low and completely wrong. I look for the cargo lights but they are gone, along with the roof that used to be mere feet above my head. In its place is now a vast canopy of green. Muted daylight slips through the leaves, rays of gray strangled by the twisted arms of the rainforest.

"Oh...my...god..."

My words are a cracked whisper.

Slowly, it all comes back to me. I shudder at the memory of what's happened.

Am I dead?

I turn my head slowly. Tree trunks. Underbrush. Debris. My gaze freezes on the woman buckled in the seat next to mine. She stares into the ocean of living green, her glazed eyes seeing nothing.

A shard of torn fuselage embedded in her throat pins her to her seat. Thick rivulets of congealing blood coat the milky skin beneath, ending at the neckline of her blouse; there they spread, an abstract portrait of crimson roses.

Bile creeps up my throat as I watch an insect crawl across her face then wriggle between her slightly parted lips. I turn my head, then vomit what little I'd eaten before our plane went down. It splashes across the foreign soil and spent leaves, carpeting the ground.

"Wouldn't do that too much, if ya know what's best for ya. You'll just dehydrate faster."

My head snaps up at the unfamiliar voice and approaching footsteps. He materializes from the green before me. Ball cap, t-shirt, jeans, boots, all rounded out with an idiotic grin.

His jeans are torn, and a magnificent bruise marrs the side of his face. Otherwise, he seems no worse for wear.

"It wasn't intentional, Mr....?"

I lift a brow and his smile widens.

"No mister here. Ryan Stafford, but you can just call me Ryan."

I frown at him then drop my gaze from his.

"Victoria Nelson."

I find the buckle imprisoning me in my seat and reach for it; to my dismay, so does he. I push his hand away.

"I'm perfectly capable of unbuckling a seatbelt, thank you."

He backs away, lifting his hands in the air.

"S'cuse the fuck outta me, your highness."

I don't acknowledge his sarcastic apology or scowl, but turn my attention back to the buckle instead. It clicks free--I nod my head then push myself from my seat. Searing pain in my leg sends me back down.

"Son of a BITCH!"

I look down then clench my teeth--it seems Miss Deader Than Shit next to me wasn't the only one attacked on the way down. Though not so bad as what happened to her, a scrap of metal sticking out of my leg is nothing to be ignored.

"Might outta pull that out."

Unvoiced laughter coats his words and I grind my teeth against it. Reaching down, I wrap my fingers around the shard then give it a yank. It doesn't move. Cold sweat pops out on my forehead, but I don't scream.