Becoming Unbroken

The woman kneeling on the beach dug her hands deeply into the wet sand. She was working, but with no castle in mind; the shape she was molding from the damp piles of sand was distinctly more organic in form. Waves crashed along the shoreline below where she knelt; the tide was receding, and her structure was safe, for a while.

She’d been working for some time, and the nails of her hands were worn ragged from digging in the rough sand; bright crescents of blood were beginning to show along the nail beds. Andy didn’t seem to notice. She was in the zone of creation, where nothing mattered but the materials in front of her, and her ability to shape them into the form she carried in her mind.

The breeze from the ocean blew a lock of hair across her face, and she brushed it impatiently behind one ear. With a determined concentration, she placed another handful of sand, then another, smoothing and shaping with care. She mopped her brow absently. Her sleeve came away streaked with blood as well as sweat, but Andy paid no attention to that, either; she was completely focused on her task. From her place on the shore, the thundering monotony of the waves filled her ears, almost drowning out the other sounds on the beach; the cries of human voices, and the roaring flames that were even now consuming sections of the destroyed aircraft.

Andy had only fragmentary memories of the crash.

It being their last night in the Philippines, Andy’s tour group had been celebrating with a vengeance, and that, combined with the literally paper-thin walls of the hotel had prevented her getting any rest. When she boarded Ilako Airlines flight 1783, bound for Honolulu, it had been just past five in the morning, Manila time; Andy stowed her carry-on in one of the overhead compartments, snagged a blanket, found her seat, and immediately fell into an exhausted sleep.

The blast of the explosion woke her, and she opened her eyes to a nightmare of flying debris and terrified screams. The wind tore at her face and clothes, and her stomach roiled as the big DC-10 plunged downward. Andy clung to the arms of her seat, petrified. She reached for the oxygen mask that dangled and flapped wildly in front of her, only to have it torn from her trembling hands by the hurricane force of the winds. She could hear the sound of the pilot’s voice over the speakers, but the words were lost in the cacophony of destruction around her. Then a wave of dizziness washed over her, and everything faded away as she passed out.

Beckett was having trouble lighting his cigarette. Between the wind blowing up from the beach and the shaking of his hands, it was damn near impossible, but he eventually managed, and gratefully drew a deep draft of smoke into his lungs. He watched for a moment as some of the other survivors scrambled through the wreckage, looking for those still alive, and he turned away. God helps those who help themselves, he thought to himself; he had no interest in aiding the rescue efforts of the others.

Beckett was miraculously unscathed from the crash, save for a few minor scratches. He was relatively composed as well; this was not his first near-death experience. The heat was becoming oppressive, so he removed the jacket of his suit, looked around for a moment for a place to hang it, then laughed briefly and dropped it on the sand. The tie soon followed the jacket, and once he was more comfortable, Beckett started weighing his options.

Beckett had been conscious for the entirety of the crash. He’d been seated in first class, of course. The exploding engine had blown off half of one of the wings, and the resulting shrapnel had torn through the coach section of the plane, leaving carnage in its wake. After the explosion, Beckett turned and looked behind himself at the damage. From where he sat, he could see the body of an old woman, tightly belted in her seat; she had been neatly decapitated. Her body still clutched a book of crosswords in her hands. Beckett looked away, and very carefully placed his oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Over the combined screams of the wind and the passengers, he could just barely make out what the pilot was saying over the intercom.

“Please remain calm. There is a small island ahead; we will attempt an emergency landing. Please, stay in your seats and remain calm. Do NOT open the emergency exits. Prepare for an emergency landing.”

“In other words, put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye,” Beckett murmured, and waited for impact.

In the wake of the crash, Beckett had little trouble freeing himself from the wreckage and escaping; the wheel housings had been ripped away and the fuselage lay on the floor of the jungle, its entire right side torn open. He even had the foresight to remove his carry-on from the miraculously still closed overhead compartment above his seat. He ignored the other passengers and checked himself over carefully; once he’d ascertained that he was unhurt, he decided he deserved a cigarette. He’d been trying to quit recently, so he only permitted himself to smoke on special occasions. If this doesn’t qualify, he thought to himself, nothing does.

After considering his options, Beckett decided one of the first things that needed to be determined was whether or not the island was inhabited. The most likely area to find evidence of habitation would be along the shoreline, so Beckett picked a direction and started walking. He’d only gone about a hundred yards or so when he saw one of the other passengers, a woman, digging in the sand. He walked over to see what she was doing; she had blood on her forehead, and seemed indifferent to his presence.

“Your head is bleeding,” he remarked, but she didn’t appear to hear him. She was a heavyset woman, fair-skinned, with a tangle of red-brown hair and the beginnings of a serious sunburn spreading across her cheeks. The mounds of sand she was laboring over were beginning to take shape; it looked like a human figure, lying on the sand. He raised his voice to be heard over the surf.

“Hey; what are you doing?”

For a few moments, it didn’t seem like she was going to respond; then she spoke without looking up. “I’m sculpting.”

“Okay, I guess I can see that...why?”

“I’m afraid.”

Beckett raised his brows in exaggerated puzzlement. “And will this sand person you’re making protect you?” he asked satirically, his mouth quirked to one side.

The woman finally stopped what she was doing and looked up at him. Her round, somber face was for the most part expressionless, but her large, dark eyes seemed foggy and unfocused, and the pupils were dilated. Concussion, Beckett thought to himself. People with concussions often did very odd things.

“I...I can’t help those people.” Her voice was mild, but there were tremblings of panic underneath that were barely restrained. “I can’t stand to feel helpless, out of control. So I’m doing this. This I can control.” Beckett absorbed this explanation with amused cynicism and shrugged.

“Whatever you say, Rodin.” He turned and sauntered off down the beach, and Andy bent to her task once more.

Beckett walked for over an hour before the beach ended in a jumble of jagged boulders at the base of a cliff. He had not seen or heard a single thing to suggest human habitation on the island, and it would be growing dark in a few hours, so he started back. He was hungry, and the only thing he’d eaten that day was the crappy airline ‘continental breakfast’, which turned out to be a bagel with cream cheese and a fruit cup; he had expected better in first class. By this time, though, that bagel was starting to sound pretty good, and he began to wonder just how much food the plane carried, and whether it would last until rescue arrived. He picked up his pace. Tonight, he needed to go through the plane debris and start collecting useful stuff before the others began to think of it; if anyone was going hungry, it wasn’t going to be him.

The sun was setting as Beckett returned to the site of the crash. On his way back, he noticed that the strange woman with the concussion was no longer on the beach, and he stopped to examine her handiwork. The figure she’d made was a woman, lying on one side. One knee of the figure was bent, with the foot tucked behind the calf of the other leg; one arm was crossed across the breasts, and the head was pillowed on the other arm. Being made of sand, it lacked detail, but the sculpted figure was quite good; it simultaneously suggested both a human form, and the hills and valleys of nature. But Beckett could also see that the tide had turned; the sand figure wouldn’t last the night. He went to join the others.

The crash of Ilako Airlines flight 1783 should hardly have been a surprise. The modified McDonnell Douglas DC-10-30CF was first built in 1979, and since its purchase by Ilako from a bankrupt Belgian airline in 2001, it had been indifferently maintained; Ilako’s shoestring budget meted out more for bribed officials than such frivolities as qualified mechanics, emergency beacons, or GPS tracking devices. In fact, the only ones who were surprised were the sixty-eight passengers aboard her when she went down. Of those passengers, only twenty-three survived the crash, along with two members of the crew; a flight attendant and the co-pilot, who had only recently graduated from an obscure Honduras flight school.

When the DC-10’s #3 engine blew, taking half the wing with it, Senior Pilot Archer James certainly wasn’t surprised; for Archer, it was more like fate. A lifetime of drinking had taken its toll on both his personal and professional life. His second wife left him over two years ago, taking with her only two bags and a black eye, and leaving behind a string of obscenities. Archer’s alcoholic ‘hobby’ and the chronic absenteeism that resulted had cost him every job he’d ever had with the major airlines as well; at the age of 53, he found that Ilako was the only outfit with low enough standards to hire him.

Nevertheless, Archer James was an unusually skilled pilot. When shrapnel from the explosion permeated the body of the aircraft, decompressing both the passenger and cargo areas, severing hydraulic lines and puncturing fuel reserves, he did not panic. He had spotted the tiny uncharted island only a few minutes before the explosion, and in the last minutes of his life, Archer James atoned for a lifetime of sins. While his young co-pilot sat frozen with fear, he managed single-handedly to find the only land within 200 miles and pilot his wounded aircraft to the ground relatively intact….almost, that is.

If there had been a runway, or a dirt road, or even a lengthy stretch of open beach, Archer might have had more success with his landing. But trees and rocks can be unforgiving, and Archer James was killed instantly when the left side of the cockpit was crushed on the initial impact with the small island. Without his hand at the controls, the wide body tore wildly through jungle, splitting open like an overripe melon and scattering much of its contents, passengers and cargo alike.

The largest section of the fuselage to remain intact came to rest in the trees not far from the beach on the northern side of the island. This section somehow managed to avoid catching fire, while spilt fuel caused the wings and most of the tail section of the airplane to burn fiercely. Between the explosion and the crash, the right side of DC-10 had for the most part disintegrated; the twenty-three surviving passengers had all been originally seated on the left side of the cabin.

Chaos reigned in the aftermath of the crash. The only members of the flight crew to survive were in no position to direct the panicked passengers; Pilar, one of the flight attendants, was unconscious, and Burke, the surviving pilot, was pinned in the crushed cockpit and seriously wounded. The clamor of passengers screaming in pain, shouting for loved ones, and weeping over the dead threatened to drown out the crashing of the surf. The tropic sun shone heedlessly down, lending a surreal quality to the nightmare scenario, a surrealism only enhanced by the postcard perfect sandy tropical beach lying only a few yards away.

After the remnants of the DC-10 came to a complete stop, several of the passengers managed to free themselves. A few staggered away and collapsed on the sand, but several of the ones who were free and relatively unhurt began pulling others from the wreckage.

A tall blond man wearing a charcoal gray Hartmarx suit crouched on the sand under a ragged palm, cradling the bloodied body of a woman. He stroked her head and wept unabashedly, but the moans and cries of the wounded slowly drew his attention away from his own grief.

Dr. Dean Michaels had accompanied his wife Jennifer to Manila. She had been sent there for a marketing conference with a new client of the advertising firm where she had recently made junior partner. Dean and Jennifer had toured Southeast Asia on their honeymoon, so when Dean learned Jenny’s company was sending her to Manila for a week, he took the same week off from his private practice in London, arranged for an old schoolmate to sub for him, and surprised his wife with an impromptu second honeymoon.

The conference with the new client went wonderfully. The director of operations was touched when he learned of Dean’s romantic gesture, and arranged several entertaining excursions for the couple; they had had a marvelous time, and spent the last day planning to return the following year for their 15th anniversary.

When they boarded flight 1783, Jennifer insisted on taking the aisle seat; when Dean sat there, his broad shoulders were bumped by every passenger or stew with a drinks cart that went down the aisle. Shrapnel from the exploding engine struck Jenny in the chest and neck, severing several major arteries, and despite Dean’s frantic efforts, she bled to death before the airplane even struck the island. After he had freed himself, he carefully lowered his wife’s body from the shattered fuselage and carried her from the site of the wreck, but his sense of duty eventually intruded on his grief. He finally wiped his eyes, removed his jacket and draped it tenderly over Jennifer’s face, and rose to his feet. He found a young Indian man staring numbly at the tumult and took him gently by the arm.

“I’m a doctor; I need you to help me find some emergency medical supplies,” he said firmly, and he turned and hurried to the nearest wounded to see how he could help.

By late afternoon, the fire in the tail section had burned out, and most of the bodies had been cleared of the wreckage. Steve Edwards, a young Australian contractor who’d been on his way to Hawaii to attend a wedding, had stepped up and begun organizing the rescue efforts. Those passengers who were able-bodied and not incapacitated with grief were pressed into service sorting the wounded from the dead. The wounded that were able to be moved were taken to the triage area the doctor had set up in the shade of a small cluster of trees, while the dead were laid a short distance away, side by side on the sand. In the bright afternoon sun, the rows of bloodied bodies seemed like a nightmare version of sunbathers from a George Romero film.

Dean struggled to save an unconscious young woman in a yellow dress who was badly wounded. He managed to stop her bleeding, but he could tell it was already too late; without major surgery, she wouldn’t last the night, and there were three other passengers at least as badly off. His medical supplies were limited to the two emergency kits from the plane and a small sewing kit found in one of the pieces of luggage scattered about the clearing. He moved from person to person, gently examining them for injuries and stitching and bandaging as needed. As he was wrapping a green-stick fracture of the radius of a pretty young blonde woman, he felt a tap on the shoulder; a tiny Filipino matron was looking at him with a taciturn expression. “You doctor? I am Tala; I help you,” she informed him, and nodded.

“Are you a nurse?”

She impatiently waved the question away. “I help you. You tell me, I do.” Tala frowned at the sobbing young woman who was sitting next to the girl with the broken arm. “You stop that. Go be useful. Find medicine.” She turned and shouted something in what sounded like Spanish, and a beautiful Filipino girl hurried over and took the young woman by the hand, helping her to her feet.

“Come on,” she said. “I know what to look for.”

“I’m fine, Cici,” said the girl with the broken arm. “Go on.” The two hurried off to go through the scattered luggage in search of medical supplies.

Dean found Tala to be a calm and competent assistant, undismayed by the sight of blood. She took over tending the superficial injuries so he could focus on the more gravely injured passengers. The slender Filipino man with the jagged shoulder wound seemed stable enough, and barring any serious infection, should heal well. The pilot had a stomach wound in addition to multiple fractures of the right leg, but the wound was shallow and to the side, and the lack of bowel smell suggested the intestines remained unperforated, so Dean was hopeful. The flight attendant was still unconscious, having taken a pretty serious knock on the head judging by the lump; all they could do was wait to see if she would wake up. Dean was also concerned about the old man wearing the khaki vest. He had only minor cuts and scratches, and his heart rate and lung function seemed fine, but he didn’t respond to any questions. Dean wasn’t sure if it was just grief or something physical, and he had no way of knowing for sure.

Bradley Finnegan, called “Finn” by everyone who knew him, had a few bumps and cuts from the accident, but he brushed them off; he’d gotten worse wiping out. He’d spent the last three weeks in surfer heaven, riding the waves at Narabeen, Bell’s Beach, even a few days at Vanuatu. His travel buds, Mick Braceman and Phil Cooper, were both killed in the crash.

He and Coop had shared a place in Encino for six months in 2008, and more than once he’d dragged his roommate’s drunken, drooling ass out of cars and up the flight of stairs to their apartment. Finn thought of those times as he pulled Coop’s body from the wreckage and laid him on the sand. After he’d laid Braceman beside Coop, he sat down beside the bodies, overwhelmed and uncertain what to do next.

After a while, he wiped his eyes and rose.

“Later, dudes,” he said in a choked voice, and rejoined the other rescuers.

The young Indian man who’d found the emergency kits for the doctor was Lakmal Jayasuriya. He had been moving to the United States; a software designer, he’d just accepted a new position with a prestigious gaming company in Seattle. He wanted desperately to help the other survivors, but the sight of blood made him feel nauseated, and the thought of touching dead bodies made him feel faint. Ashamed of himself, he hid in a small grove of trees on the far side of the torn fuselage, until the lowering twilight gave him an idea.

He may not be able to help with the dead or wounded, but he could still be useful; he could build a fire. He jumped up, relieved to have something to do, and began gathering wood.

When the sun touched the edge of the far horizon, Andy finally rose to her feet, exhausted. She was badly sunburned, but she felt calm once again, and in control. The lump on her forehead was already going down, and she no longer felt dizzy. Andy decided it was time to stop thinking about herself and start thinking about what she could do for the other survivors.

When she returned to the crash site, she looked around to see what was being done for the wounded. She was relieved to hear that there had been a doctor on board the flight; she found him crouched beside the wounded pilot, talking to a small Filipino woman, and tapped him timidly on the shoulder.

“Doctor, is there anything I can do to help?” she asked shyly.

Dean looked at the dried blood on her forehead, and then pulled his pencil light from his pocket and shone it in her eyes; he was soon satisfied she was only mildly concussed.

“Do you have any kind of medical or nursing training?”

“No.”

“Well, never mind. Excuse me, please.” He knelt down once more beside the pilot, who was moaning. “I’ve got to get that leg immobilized,” he muttered to himself, Andy already forgotten. Andy looked at the wounded pilot thoughtfully for a moment, then walked over to the wrecked fuselage and clambered inside. She began opening overhead compartments, and found what she was looking for in the third one; a pair of ski boots. She remembered seeing them as she was looking for space for her own bag that morning; they’d stood out in her mind because of the oddity of them. Taking skis to Hawaii was like taking a bikini to Antarctica. She carried the ski boots over to the doctor and dropped them on the sand beside him.

“Doctor, would one of these help?”

Dean picked up one of the boots wonderingly.

“Ski boots. Bloody brilliant. Yes, I think these will be a great help, Miss…?”

“I’m Andy.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Andy. I’m Dean.”

“Okay, Dean. I just thought of something else; I’ll be back in a minute.”

She went into the cargo section of the fuselage next. After a few minutes of poking around with her pocket flashlight, she began tearing open boxes. Five minutes later, she returned to where Dean was trying to modify the ski boot to immobilize the pilot’s leg; she was carrying several thick pieces of Styrofoam packing and a roll of duct tape.

“These might help, too,” she said, offering them to the doctor. He took them, nodding.

“Yes, these will do nicely. Very clever; thank you.” He looked up at Andy and gave her a wan smile.

“You wouldn’t by any chance know how to repair an aeroplane?”

With the sun down, the survivors began to gather around Lakmal’s enormous bonfire. The temperature had dropped a little after sunset, but not enough to be considered cool; the traumatized people were drawn to the fire for light and comfort, rather than warmth. A young American with a scraggly goatee had found the food supplies still on the plane, and was passing out the little plastic-wrapped packages to the others.

One of the four severely wounded passengers died not long after sunset, and Dean was afraid to move the others; he and Tala built a smaller fire. Perry, the man with the goatee, brought a stack of the packaged meals to the doctor, and then coughed nervously.

“Uh, Doctor? I’m worried about a couple of people.”

“Who’s that you’re worried about?”

“That lady there, for one,” Perry replied, pointing. There was a young woman sitting in the distance by the row of bodies, barely visible in the darkness. She was cradling something in her arms, and rocking slowly back and forth.

Perry’s voice dropped. “I think that’s her baby she’s holding,” he muttered unhappily. “It’s...you know.”

Dean sighed and closed his eyes; he was nearing exhaustion. “Okay. Who else?”

“Those two kids. I don’t think they’ve talked to anybody.”

He gestured at two boys sitting close together not far from the bonfire. The older one appeared to be in his mid-teens; he was tall and lanky, with shoulder-length brown hair that hung in his eyes. The younger couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve; his hair was shaggy blond, and he was still carrying a small spare tire of baby fat around his middle. The two boys were holding hands, and both were staring into the fire with numb, bewildered faces.

Dean felt overwhelmed. He knew if he gave in to the pain of losing Jenny, he would become completely useless, and there were people here who desperately needed him. He was putting all his efforts into containing his own grief and helping the injured; he had no energy left for coping with the grieving of others. Tala, who had been listening, patted Dean comfortingly on the shoulder. “No worry,” she said. “I take care of them.”

Tala found her daughter, Lualhati, sitting with the two young blonde women. Hati introduced the two to her mother; the girl with the broken arm was Susan, and her friend was Cici; they were college roommates on holiday. The women talked quietly for a few minutes, and then split up; the blonde girls walked over to the two boys, and Tala and her daughter went to comfort the grieving young mother.

It was past midnight when Andy decided to return to the wrecked fuselage. The bonfire had died down, and most of the survivors were asleep. The only people awake that Andy could see were the doctor and Tala, the Filipino lady; apparently, another one of the wounded had died, and the doctor was carrying the body over to where all the others lay.

Andy was tired, but she wanted to find her carry-on, and she also hoped she might find some of those little airline pillows and blankets that might be still unclaimed. As she climbed up into the cabin area, she heard a rustling movement, and suddenly a light was shining in her eyes, blinding her.

“Well, if it isn’t Lady Picasso,” she heard. She pointed her own flashlight at the source of the voice; it was the handsome black-haired man who had made fun of her on the beach that morning.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Same thing as you.”

“I’m trying to find my stuff.”

“Like I said.”

She looked skeptically at the bulging duffel bag hanging from the man’s shoulder as he pushed past her and climbed swiftly down to the ground. “Look, I don’t really care what you’re doing,” she said wearily. “But if you find any meds, you should give them to the doctor.” She opened one of the overhead compartments and began searching for her bag.

“I’ll take that under advisement, Rosie.”

Andy frowned in annoyance. “It’s Andy,” she replied. But he was already gone.

Andy didn’t sleep well on the sand, and rose early the next day. It’s time to be practical, she thought, and nothing is more practical than breakfast. She emptied her carry-on bag, bundled her things into the blanket she’d found the night before, and went looking for food. She didn’t have to wander too far. The citrus trees she ran across were barren, and the coconuts and bananas were out of her reach, but she found enough ripe mangoes and papayas to fill her bag quickly, and she hurried back to the other survivors. She was relieved to find a small stream nearby trickling its way to sea; at least there was a source of fresh water.

Several of the survivors were awake by the time they got back; they were standing together a few yards away from the ones who were still sleeping, talking quietly. As she walked into the camp, the burly man with the Australian accent beckoned her over to the group.

“I saw you yesterday; I’m Steve Edwards.”

“I’m Andy Simons,” she replied, and looked expectantly at the others.

“I’m Susan, Susan Hall,” said the pretty blonde woman with her arm in a sling. She waved towards the others who were still sleeping. “Over there’s my friend Cici; we go to school together, at Simon Frasier. In Vancouver.”

“Lakmal Jayasuriya,” said the young Indian man. “uhm…Lakmal.”

The lanky teenage boy flushed shyly. “I’m Drew Brandis,” he mumbled, and then pointed to the blond boy who was prodding the remains of the fire with a stick. “That’s my brother, Ryan. He’s twelve.”

“Max Cameron,” said the older man with the silvery hair. “Nice to meet you folks...all things considered.” His comment was answered with a few uncomfortable smiles.

“I’m Perry,” said the young man with the goatee. “We were just talking about how soon we can expect rescue.”

“These things usually only take a few days, right?” asked Susan. “When you see planes going down in the news, they usually find them in a few days, right?”

“I don’t know; I think we can’t expect rescue for a few weeks, at least.” Max remarked calmly.

“We can’t expect rescue,” Andy said quietly. Everyone in the group stared at her in silence, and Andy blushed. “I mean, we can’t just sit around, waiting to be found. When rescue comes, great, but until then, we need to start figuring out how we’re all going to survive on this island.”

“Of course we’re going to be rescued,” announced a fifty-something woman who was approaching the group of people. She had a superior attitude and a head of bright red hair that was obviously a wig. “This is the twentieth century, not Robinson Caruso.”

“Crusoe,” Max corrected her, earning himself a scowl.

“Well, y’all do what you want, of course.” Andy shrugged. “But isn’t it safer to assume rescue will come later rather than sooner?” Steve nodded decisively.

“Andy’s right; hope for the best, and plan for the worst,” he agreed. “So where should we start?”

“Well….” Andy was a little uncomfortable about being looked to for direction, but she’d been giving their situation a lot of thought. “Food and water, first of all. There’s a small stream to the east of here, so luckily, fresh water’s not a problem. We need to figure out what we can eat on this island. Are there any botanists here?”

“I’m a cook,” Perry offered, looking around at the group. “I mean, I went to culinary school. I didn’t graduate, but I’ve been working as a cook for a year and a half now, and I’ve learned a lot about exotic edibles and stuff. ”

“Well then, you should be in charge of food, acquiring and preparing it.” She looked around at the group. “We’re all going to have to work together if we’re going to manage here.”

“I’ll be in charge of the fire,” Lakmal announced loudly. The others looked at him with surprise, and he became embarrassed. “I’m just saying, we should always have a fire ready, just in case, to signal ships or planes. I can do that.”

“Good idea,” Andy nodded. She and the others continued to talk for a while, discussing which tasks needed to be done and who could do them. It was agreed that the dead bodies needed to be buried soon; lying in the tropical sun for a day had improved neither their appearance nor their smell. Steve volunteered for that task and started planning his crew. Lakmal offered to make a list of what was in the cargo area. Andy agreed to start going through the unclaimed luggage and organize the contents into a community chest of sorts; the wigged lady, who’d introduced herself as Barb, offered her assistance. Max volunteered to help Perry with food acquisition, as did Drew.

“Will we get to hunt boars?” he asked nervously. Max patted him on the shoulder.

“Son, you watch too much TV.”

The last two mortally wounded passengers died by that afternoon, and the flight attendant regained consciousness; by that evening, the twenty-one remaining survivors of flight 1783 gathered around the fire. Perry and Drew passed around fresh fruit and the last of the airline food to the survivors, now castaways.

Steve publicly thanked Finn, Max, and Dietrich for helping with the burial; Dietrich was a short, barrel-chested German man who apparently didn’t speak any English, but he smiled and nodded his head when his name was mentioned. Barb stood up and took credit for organizing the unclaimed luggage into a community chest, while Andy listened placidly without comment. Then Lakmal rose and cleared his throat, blushing.

“I went over everything that was in the cargo space, and I made a list,” he said timidly, and cleared his throat again. “Two cases of Jojo Muriel designer handbags, six boxes of Bilis semiconductors, four boxes of prepaid cell phone cards, a box of watches, and two crates of rattan chairs, thirty-six chairs total. Oh, and two cases of cigars. And, uhm…….three boxes of those little drink umbrellas.” A small ripple of laughter rolled around the fire at the last item, and Lakmal smiled nervously and sat down as Perry stood up.

“I’m going to need more help getting food, because there’s a lot of us. We need to send people out every day to forage for fruits and stuff, and we need to start looking into proteins—is there anyone here who can fish?” The surfer, Finn, and Honesto, the Filipino man with the shoulder wound, both raised their hands; Perry nodded at them. “Great. And we should see what other animals there are here.” Max spoke up from his seat by the fire.

“Folks, I don’t think we should expect any mammals; they’re not native to the pacific islands, as a rule.”

“Shouldn’t there be pigs? Or deer? They have them in Tahiti,” offered Susan helpfully. “We went there for spring break last year.”

Max shook his head. “If this island ever had human inhabitants, there might be pigs, but it’s doubtful. As a general rule, lizards and birds are the highest in the food chain we can expect here.” There was a murmur of uneasiness through the group. “Folks, there will be plenty of food; there’s a whole ocean full of fish right there,” he said, gesturing, and the tension eased.

“What about rescue? Won’t someone be coming soon?” asked Cici sounding puzzled.

“I hope so, young lady, we all hope so. But we’ve got to stay alive in the meantime, so it’s best if we don’t count on rescue coming any time soon.” There was a small tumult as several conversations broke out at once around the fire. The doctor stood up and waved everyone to silence. He looked exhausted.

“Everyone, I just have a few things to say. First, I would appreciate it if anyone with medicines of any kind, especially antibiotics, brought them to me; we have several wounded who need them. I understand there are fresh water sources here, but I would recommend boiling before using, at least until we can determine it’s safe. And we need to decide what to do with the rest of the bodies.” There was an uncomfortable silence. There were several dead bodies still in fuselage that were so gruesome that none of the rescue party had been inclined to move them, and a distinct odor wafted from the direction of the fuselage that was unmistakable.

“We should just burn the plane,” Barb stated with authority.

“That would be stupid,” Andy responded. She had been sitting silently to one side throughout the whole gathering; now the others stared at her in surprise, and Barb looked nettled. Andy blushed, looking down shyly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. But the fuselage is our principle source for all things man-made, now. We can’t afford to burn it; we need it.”

Mutters of agreement rose around the fire. Peevishly, Barb inquired, “Well, what do you propose we should do with those poor people, then? Are you going to move them?” Andy looked unhappy, but nodded slowly.

“I guess I am,” she replied softly, standing up. “Tomorrow morning.” She glanced around at the people gathered around the fire. “And I’d appreciate any help I can get.” Not waiting for a response, she left the circle, walking down towards the beach.

The group around the fire broke up soon after Andy left, as people went their separate ways, settling in for the night. Beckett had stood silently in the back during the meeting, smoking and listening carefully, a sardonically amused expression creasing his face. He noted the discovery of cigars in the cargo area—he’d have to check them out tonight. His raid on the fuselage the night before had been quite successful, and the stash of food, cigarettes, books, medicines, alcohol, and sundries he had acquired was now carefully hidden in the jungle.

Andy came walking back up from the beach. As she neared Beckett, he gave her a slanting smile.

“Well, Fluffy, aren’t you glad you spoke up? I wouldn’t expect too many volunteers for morgue duty tomorrow, if I were you.” Andy recognized the man who had been raiding the fuselage the night before.

“Did you give the Doctor the meds you found last night?” she asked.

“Of course,” Beckett lied smoothly. Andy just looked at him, one skeptical eyebrow raised.

“There are some badly hurt people here, Mr...?” Beckett ignored her implied question.

“What’s that to me?” he said coldly.

Andy regarded him silently, then pulled something out of her pocket and tossed it to Beckett. He caught it instinctively; it was a seashell, about as big as his palm and brightly colored. It was beautiful.

“Put that in your stash,” she said dryly, walking away.

“Have fun tomorrow, Morticia,” he smiled nastily.

Andy rose with the sun the next day. The day before, Steve had fashioned several digging tools out of bamboo for burying the bodies; Andy picked one up and walked over to the grave-site. She hadn’t been digging long when a shadow fell over her. She looked up to see Dean standing beside her, and Steve just walking up behind him.

“We understand you could use some help,” Dean said.

The hole was soon dug, and Andy led the other two over to the cargo area. Pulling out the roll of duct tape and a knife, she pulled the plastic wrapping off several boxes and quickly fashioned aprons and loose mittens for them to wear before they went into the cabin. There were at least six mutilated bodies that had been stewing in the tropical sun for two days; between the insects and the stink, it was almost unbearable. Using more of the plastic wrapping as bags, the three carefully gathered up the remains. They didn’t speak very much. It was nauseating and upsetting work, and by the time they had finished, the two men were greener than young grass, and Andy wondered how she would ever sleep soundly again.

After the last bodies were buried, Andy needed a break. She took a walk down the beach to the east and soon came across another stream, larger than the one to the west of camp. She splashed water on her face and neck to cool them and began to make her way upstream. About twenty minutes from the beach, Andy found a shady pool almost hidden in the trees. The pool was at least thirty feet across; the water looked cool and inviting, and there was a tiny gravel beach on the near side. A swim sounded absolutely delicious; she sat down and began taking off her shoes.

By the early afternoon, Andy was ready to return to the campsite. When she got back, she found Perry lashing several of the cargo pallets together to form a rudimentary table in the shade of the trees. The fruits and veggies would keep better if they were kept off the ground, Perry explained to Andy; this table would act as a pot luck/pantry for the castaways.

“We can roast some stuff in the fire by wrapping them in banana leaves,” Perry explained, “but if I’m to do any real cooking, I’m going to need something to cook with.”

Let me see what I can find,” Andy replied.

She soon found what she was looking for. Using a small hacksaw and pry bar she’d discovered in the cargo section, Andy worked patiently until she managed to free a large curved section of the wheel housing from the rubble. Upended, the bowl-shaped piece of metal made an enormous but satisfactory cooking pot, and Perry was soon immersed in the task of making a stew for that evening.

The castaways were beginning the process of becoming acquainted. That evening around the fire, Andy learned about the castaways she had not yet met. The young African-American woman whose baby had been killed was Louisa Richardson. Her husband had died as well as her infant daughter in the crash, and Louisa was still almost paralyzed with grief; Tala and her daughter Hati were keeping the unhappy woman company. Honesto Cruz Alcaraz was the Filipino man with the shoulder wound, and despite his injury, he and Finn had spent a good part of the day fishing. The savory seafood stew Perry made that evening from the day’s catch was delicious.

The flight attendant was Pilar Martinez, a pretty, exotic looking woman in her early thirties. Pilar’s mother was Filipino, and her father was Mexican-American; she was fluent in English, Spanish and Filipino. Gabriel Parker was the old man the doctor had been so worried about. Gabe’s heart was healthy, but his entire world had been turned upside down by the death of Zelda, his wife of forty-five years. Gabe seemed almost as lost as the two boys, Drew and Ryan; their parents had both been killed in the crash, along with their younger sister, who had been only seven years old.

The wounded pilot was Clifton Burke, an Australian native; he was feverish, and Dean was getting rather worried. Burke’s belly wound had become infected, and if they weren’t able to find any antibiotics in the salvage of the plane, he didn’t know if the pilot would survive. He confided his worries to Andy later on that evening, and Andy looked thoughtful once again.

“I think I might be able to find you some antibiotics,” she told the doctor. She’d learned Beckett’s name only that evening, but she’d been keeping an eye on him all day. He frequently went into the jungle, only to return carrying something; it shouldn’t be too hard to follow him next time he visited his stash.

The next day, late in the morning, Beckett angrily confronted Dean outside his shelter.

“All right, Doc—who busted into my stash? Don’t tell me they didn’t give you the drugs; I saw you handing them out.”

Dean looked at Beckett with cool detachment. “Why would I ever tell you anything, Beckett?”

“Because they stole the rest of my stash as well! I found that stuff; it belongs to me.”

“It belongs to all of us, Beckett. We’re going to have to share if we’re going to survive.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, comrade. When do we start wearing furry hats?”

“I’m talking about socialism, not communism. I suppose the nuances of difference escape some classes of people.”

Beckett grinned widely at the doctor’s condescending remark. “And here I thought all medical doctors were greedy, money-grubbing, selfish bastards who stabbed colleagues in the back while they required their patients to treat them like gods. I didn’t know some of them were tree huggers as well; I guess you learn something new every day. Who did it?”

“I did.”

Andy had come up quietly behind Beckett as he argued with the doctor. “You didn’t give me any choice, did you? The doctor needed those antibiotics.” She shook her head reprovingly as he stared at her with outrage. “If you’d volunteered them, you wouldn’t have lost everything else.”

Beckett advanced threateningly on Andy, “Who the hell do you think you are, bitch?” he snarled. Dean quickly stepped between them.

“I won’t have you speak to her that way,” Dean said firmly. “Andy was trying to help save a man’s life. Now, I think your business is done here.” Beckett could see Dean preparing to square off with him, and backed down; he wasn’t ready for a showdown. Casting a venomous glance at Andy, he left with a final parting shot—

“Fuck you both.”

It was the seventh day since the crash, and the castaways were slowly adjusting to life on the island. The climate was beautifully warm and mild, but the frequency of sudden rain showers made some kind of protection a necessity. Most of them managed to construct tents or shelters out of materials from the cargo area and pieces of the destroyed airplane.

They were kept busy constructing a society as well. Several of the castaways quickly found their niche. Perry, the cooking school drop-out, kept busy from morning to night planning and cooking meals and experimenting with the variety of herbs, spices and other foodstuffs available on the island; both Susan and Cici helped him with food preparation. Finn and Honesto were the fishermen; they had found several cargo nets that with a little alteration, served satisfactorily as fishing nets, and almost every morning, they both rose early and headed to the sea, returning with an abundance of crab, tilapia, grouper, croaker, even the occasional squid. Steve kept busy helping many of the castaways build their shelters; his construction experience was invaluable. Lakmal kept the fire. He laid claim to the plane’s emergency fire axe, and the hours spent daily chopping and carrying wood were already beginning to pad his thin frame with muscle. Those without specific tasks usually spent at least part of every day gathering the various fruits, herbs, and tubers the island provided.

Most of the wounded were healing well enough, with the exception of Burke, the young pilot. Dean’s Jerry-rigged cast for Burke’s leg seemed to be quite satisfactory, but his stomach wound was worrying his doctor. The antibiotics Andy had confiscated from Beckett’s stash had seemed to work initially; the swelling had gone down and the wound had closed. But Burke began to develop a rash in reaction to the penicillin that grew rapidly worse. Unfortunately, an anaphylactic reaction could kill just as easily as infection; Dean switched his patient to a weaker antibiotic and hoped for the best.

The survivors who had lost loved ones in the crash weren’t faring very well, either. Dean focused on setting up his shelter as an infirmary as a way of managing his grief, but he wasn’t sleeping very well, and had lost weight. Louisa was near suicidal over the loss of her husband and child; Tala quietly arranged with the other women to take turns keeping watch over her. Tala also took over the mothering role for the two boys, Drew and Ryan. Both grieved for their parents and sister, but it was Ryan, the younger of the two who adjusted soonest; he had lost his parents only to find himself in the middle of an honest-to-goodness adventure story, and he now spent his days wandering the island, happily exploring.

Andy was happy as well, though she didn’t know it. She was busy from morning to night; when she wasn’t working on her shelter or gathering food, she was helping people. Andy taught the others how to weave thick mats out of dried grass and layer them on the floors of their shelters to keep down the ubiquitous sand fleas. She figured out a method of “skinning” the seats from the airplane so that one was left with a large padded cushion; most of the castaways now slept on them. Andy’s abrupt manner and frankness often rubbed people the wrong way, but her brilliance at solving problems was undeniable. Soon, the most frequent answer to any question posed around the campfire was, “Ask Andy.”

The only fly in the ointment of the islands little society was Beckett. He’d collected a lot of valuable items from the plane in the beginning; Andy had only found one of his stashes. He spent his days lazing about the campsite, trading items like toothpaste and sun block to the other castaways, and insulting people. Beckett had a snide comment for everyone, but he saved his worst remarks for Andy; he was still bitterly resentful over her raid of his hidden stash, and he intended to make her regret it.

Andy had spent several hours that morning working on the structure of her shelter, and by noon she was hot and tired. Grabbing a couple of bananas from the pot luck table Perry had set up, she headed out towards the pool she’d discovered for a swim.

The trees kept the pool in shade throughout most of the day, so the water was wonderfully cool and refreshing, and Andy paddled about in it for almost an hour, enjoying the silence. As she was wading back to shore, she heard a man’s voice.

“Well, hey there, Shelley. I thought this was a plane crash, not the Poseidon Adventure.”

Andy flushed; Beckett had just emerged from the trees and was standing by the water’s edge, laughing at her.

“Why do you have to act like such an asshole, Beckett?” she asked, drying herself with a towel from her bag.

He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Who says I’m acting?” he replied insolently. “You think it’s easy to be this insensitive? I’m not here to make friends, pumpkin. I’m only interested in taking care of myself.”

Andy looked at Beckett with pity, picked up her sandals and shouldered her bag. “You know, I think you might be the loneliest person on this island, Beckett,” she said mildly. She turned and headed downstream, back towards the beach campsite, and Beckett laughed jeeringly as she retreated.

“Cry me a river, Oprah.”

That night, Beckett woke to a sharp, pricking sensation at his throat. Bug, he thought drowsily, and brushed at his neck, only to feel the cool edge of a blade. A surge of adrenaline flooded his body as he started to rise and felt a hand push him down. The point of the blade pressed harder against his skin, and a soft voice spoke out of the darkness.

“Stop. Be quiet.” He heard a muted click and was suddenly blinded with light; then the flashlight was no longer pointed at his face, and as his eyes adjusted, he recognized the other person in the tent, holding the knife to his neck. It was that thieving bitch, Andy. She cocked her head to one side and regarded Beckett steadily.

“What the—“ The point of the blade bore down, and he fell silent again.

She nodded, satisfied. “Good. You can learn. I thought it was time we had a little talk.”

Andy laid the flashlight on the ground beside where she knelt, holding the knife, and its light reflected off the side of the tent and illuminated the interior with a ghostly glow. She looked at Beckett, lying on his back, his eyes burning with fury, and sighed.

“I’ve grown tired of you, Beckett, and all your snarky little remarks. It’s gotten really old. So I’ve decided to offer you a deal—you’re the one who likes to make deals, right?”

“You—“

“Ah-ah-ah, it’s my turn to talk. Be patient; your turn will come. Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes, our deal.” She smiled down at him, but the smile never reached her eyes. “Here’s my proposal: you promise to leave me alone from here on out—no more smart remarks, no more cute nicknames, you just leave me the hell alone.” She paused, and the smile faded from her face as she continued. “And I promise not to come into your tent in the middle of the night and castrate you in your sleep.”

Beckett glared up at her silently, and she tipped her head in his direction.

“Your turn.”

“Where did you get the knife?”

“It used to belong to Gabe’s wife; he gave it to me. He said he thought I could put it to good use…and you know, I think he was right. But you haven’t said anything about my offer, Beckett. What’ll it be? Can you play nice? Or shall I take you to the vet, so to speak?”

Beckett’s prone position and helplessness at the hands of this woman infuriated him. He could feel where the knife had broken skin less than an inch from his jugular; a tiny trickle of warm blood ran down, tickling his neck.

“You don’t have the guts, bitch,” he grated, his anger making him reckless.

Andy stared intently into Beckett’s eyes.

“You think so?” she whispered, and leaned closer. Their faces were less than a foot apart, and her dark eyes appeared enormous. “Think again, Beckett. Do you know what would happen to me if I cut your throat right now?” He was silent. “Nothing,” she said flatly. “Nothing at all. Not one person here would do a thing about it. And do you know why? Because I have value here. I’m a contributing member of this little community. I help people. And you? You’re nothing but a worthless parasite, and everyone knows it.”

Beckett remained silent, fuming inwardly; he knew the truth when he heard it, and Andy saw his reluctant acknowledgment in his face. She leaned back, and the pressure at his throat eased slightly.

“So how about it? Do we have a deal?” she asked. “ ’Cause I should tell you, this is a limited time offer. Like for the next thirty seconds.” She shifted the knife point to just under his chin, forcing it up, forcing his gaze to meet hers, and Beckett, the consummate poker player, stared his own death in the face. Either she was the best liar he’d ever met…or she wasn’t bluffing. Either way, he knew when he was beaten.

“It’s a deal,” he growled between his teeth.

“Say it.”

“All right! I’ll leave you alone!”

Andy let out a deep breath; she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it.

“Good. Great. We’ve got a deal.”

Beckett, relieved, tentatively started to sit up, only to have her push him back down. She was smiling again in a manner he didn’t like at all.

“Now there’s just one last little problem,” she said, and she raised one skeptical eyebrow. Beckett felt a rumble of uneasiness in his chest at the look on her face. “Here’s the thing. You’re an arrogant, scheming son-of-a-bitch, and as soon as I leave this tent, I’m concerned that you’re going to start working this around in your mind, maybe think about some payback. So what can I give you to…remind you to behave yourself?” She appeared thoughtful for a moment.

“Wait-- I know,” she said, and she slid the edge of the knife delicately just below Beckett’s jaw line, opening a shallow gash about four inches long. He gasped in panic and pushed himself violently back and away from Andy, pressing a hand to his neck, as Andy scooted backwards on her knees toward the tent opening, pointing the knife in his direction.

“You crazy bitch!” he exclaimed, clutching at his throat. There was quite a bit of blood from the wound, but the flow was already slowing, and he knew immediately she’d missed the jugular vein deliberately. She waved the blood-tipped knife at him in a mock-reproving gesture.

“Now don’t start breaking your word already,” Andy cautioned. She picked up her flashlight and shone it on him, and he glared with hatred into the light. She paused once more at the tent flap. “You know, you should probably have Dean look at that; you might need a few stitches.”

Then the light went out, and she was gone.

“Wake up, Doc! Get up, goddammit! I need some help!”

“What? What is it?” Dean blearily opened his eyes. In the faint light of the coming dawn, a figure was silhouetted in the doorway of his shelter; it was Beckett, holding a wadded tee shirt pressed against his neck. Dean fumbled for the flashlight by his bed as Beckett entered the shelter and sat himself in the rattan chair that served as Dean’s principle furniture. He pulled the shirt away from his neck with a wince, exposing the blood-clotted wound at his throat.

“Christ, Beckett! What happened to you?”

“As far as you’re concerned, Doc, I cut myself shaving,” Beckett growled. “Just stitch me up.”