She’d be fine.
41
Porcelain skin.
Thick curls of dark hair.
He liked breaking things, things of beauty, and upon impulse he would act with unnerving efficiency, the prospect presenting itself on a sweet-smelling bed of petals. Her pale skin and slim body suggested eminence in variety, the opportunity unmarred by pestilence or noise.
From the trees he watched...
The perfect calm.
The graceful pace of her step against the quietly lapping water.
...as she carefully examined her surroundings, residual emotion flowing from her in waves.
With every footfall, she drew nearer to the tree line, his insistence for silence unmarred.
She would not ruin it for him.
He would not allow that.
Closer to the trees she drew, a heavy and black smudge of burden pressed against her good sense.
A chance peek over her shoulder.
Another silent footstep.
Closer.
Directly in front of him, she stopped.
Anybody could wish for damnation. Anybody could refute it. In this moment, she was of the wishing kind, though she didn’t yet know it. Close enough to touch, she admired the view.
He admired it with her.
Sharing was about to become part of her life, the very meaning to her existence. Sharing would be her final gift.
At breaking dawn, the resilient group of “survivors” would wake, the persistent wedge of anxiety driven through the very heart of their hope. It was about to begin. Begin with the translucent skin before him, and the urgent desire to destroy something beautiful.
Porcelain skin.
Thick curls of dark hair.
It was about to begin.
42
At first light, James hit the sunken wreckage with the snorkeling gear. As he’d hoped the morning was calm, the only sounds drifting across the sand coming from the groaning pilot, the blankets drawn up over the flanks of his tent.
With no breeze, the water was as still as it was warm. He waded out wearing only a pair of board shorts, plump fish shooting between his legs. Most of the larger portions of the wreckage had thankfully settled close to shore, the nearest no more than ten feet deep. Parts had broken the water's surface, too large to be engulfed.
Strapping the mask to his face he disappeared beneath the surface in time to spy a plethora of fleeing fish. Only some were spectacular, but all were graceful in the arcing shafts of the immature sun.
Clawing deeper he hauled himself into a long flat section of what looked like the hull, the snagged form of a cadaver startling him as he glided into the luggage compartment. It was a man, one side of his face torn away. Sea creatures too small to know better probed the corpse with curiosity, while some of the larger ones fled into nearby crevices. No luggage remained.
For over an hour he swam between the three main sections of the fallen craft, each one offering little in the way of baggage or medical supplies, but he hadn’t struck out completely. Strapped around his shoulder he towed along two pieces of hand luggage and gripped tightly in each hand were two suitcases, courtesy of – according to their respective nametags – a Mr Adams and a Mr Zachariah.
He surfaced to pandemonium.
Something was happening within the camp, a screaming, a bellowing. He could hear his name being called, Abbey’s too, a throng of bedlam journeying out across the bay.
Bounding through the shallow water, he crashed panting onto the sand, luggage forgotten, pushing past the incoherent Oli, the inaudible Elaine, and in nothing more than a haze he was by Gibson’s side. The man writhed in agony as Anthony and Sebastian attempted to pin him to the sand. Glaring on in confusion were Eric and the silent girl, their faces a similarity of age, despite the years between them.
‘Get them out of here!’ James screamed.
Senses clicking, Elaine led them away, her hands placed gently over the girl’s ears.
‘Gibson,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s James.’ The pilot’s rolling eyes drifted in his direction, any sense of recognition hidden beneath several thick layers of pain. ‘I’m going to look at the wound, okay. Try to calm down.’
He lifted the blanket, the wound visibly much the same as he’d last seen it.
‘Jesus,’ Sebastian gasped.
‘Come on, Gibson, stay with me.’ Then to the others: ‘Does anyone here have any medical knowledge? Anyone…anything at all?’
A collage of frightened faces peered back at him.
‘Look at him!’ Anthony bellowed. ‘Do something.’
James hesitated, scanned the beach. Where the hell was Abbey? He needed her! As the world slowed down he closed his eyes, blocked out the screams and the curses. The moment he’d been dreading had arrived. He wasn’t prepared for something of this magnitude, neither by expertise nor equipment.
Anthony’s pleas had become indistinct, as too had the pilot’s screams. He looked to the birth-marked man, watched his slow-moving lips silently bellowing for action, and Gibson, whose own cries should’ve been bringing down the trees. Sebastian was the only one to remain composed, his eyes limpid pools of calm.
Snapping out of his ethereal state, all five senses returned to him at once like a slap in the face. With somebody else’s arm, he reached into the toolbox and withdrew the serrated saw. Somebody else’s fingers gripped the handle, and it was somebody else’s idea to remove the blanket and position the instrument’s teeth above the pilot’s wound. He glanced up at the student. ‘Oli, hold his legs down. Whatever you do, don’t let go.’
‘I…I can’t, man!’ The student's horrified face was sheathed in sweat. ‘Not me, no way!’
‘Hey!’ Anthony snapped. ‘Do it.’
‘Oli,’ James said calmly. ‘You need to do this now or the man is going to die, do you understand? Sit on his legs and face away.’
‘You can’t do this, James. We…we
