Chapter 4 the survival prince
The luxury of the Sovereign of the Seas was now a distant, fading dream. Jack woke up on his eleventh day on the island with a stomach that felt like it was eating itself. The few berries and crabs he had scavenged weren't enough. He looked at his reflection in a calm tide pool and barely recognized himself. His face was thinner, his skin was tanned dark by the sun, and his eyes had a sharpness they never possessed in the mansion.
"I have to go deeper," he whispered to the silence.Leaving the safety of the shore, Jack pushed into the dense, humid heart of the forest. Every step was a struggle against thick vines and jagged rocks. He was looking for real food—something substantial.Suddenly, the air changed. The birds went silent. Jack froze, his hand gripping a heavy branch he used as a walking stick. In the tall, swaying grass just ten feet away, he saw a flash of black bristles. It was a wild pig, rooting through the dirt for tubers.Jack’s heart hammered. He thought about the steak dinners served on silver platters back home. He didn't realize that in the wild, the dinner fights back.He tried to creep forward, but his foot snapped a dry twig. The pig’s head snapped up. It didn't run away in fear; it grunted, kicked up dirt with its hooves, and charged."Wait!" Jack screamed, a useless instinct from a world where people listened to him.The pig slammed into his midsection with the force of a moving car. Jack was thrown backward, his breath leaving his lungs in a painful gasp. He struggled to get up, but the animal was a blur of muscle and tusks, hitting him again and again. As a boy who had never been in a real fight, Jack felt helpless. He was weak from hunger, and the pig was a veteran of the jungle.After several minutes of a one-sided struggle, the pig finally grew bored or satisfied and trotted away into the brush. Jack lay in the dirt, his body throbbing with pain. His expensive designer clothes were now nothing but shredded rags, hanging off his frame in tatters.He stood up slowly, leaning against a tree for support. He was bruised, but he was alive. He found a cluster of fruit trees nearby—small, tart apples. He ate them greedily, the juice stinging the cuts on his lips."I can't wear these rags anymore," he muttered.He walked back toward the ocean, the salt air calling to him. He waded into the surf, letting the cool seawater wash the dirt and blood from his wounds. It was a painful "relief," the salt stinging like fire, but he knew he had to stay clean to avoid infection.Once dry, Jack went back to the treeline. He began to gather large, thick tropical leaves. Using thin, flexible vines, he sat on the sand and began to weave. It was slow work, and his fingers were clumsy, but after several hours, he had fashioned a rough tunic and a pair of wrap-around shoes made of leaves. He looked like a creature of the forest now."I made this," he said, a small spark of pride warming his chest. "I didn't buy it. I made it."After marking the tree, he performed a small ritual of civilization: he brushed his teeth using only fresh water and his fingers, trying to keep some part of his old self alive. Then, he gathered his weapons—his sharpened sticks and heavy stones—and headed back into the forest. He wasn't the boy who got attacked by a pig anymore. He was the hunter.The forest felt different today. Jack was quieter, his eyes scanning the thickets. Suddenly, he heard it again—that low, rhythmic rustling. Something was moving toward him through the brush.Jack didn't panic this time. He held his sharp wooden spear tightly, his knuckles white. He stood his ground as the leaves parted. It was another wild pig, perhaps the same one from the day before.As the animal lunged, Jack didn't fall back. He stepped aside and, with a shout of raw survival, he stabbed the pig in the throat with his weapon.The struggle was brief but intense. Jack watched the animal's eyes, feeling a heavy weight in his heart. He felt "helpless" as he watched the life fade from the creature, but he knew the truth: "It was the only source of living for me." He wasn't killing for sport; he was killing to stay on this earth. When the pig finally went still, Jack took it with him, dragging the heavy weight back to his camp. He had meat, but he couldn't eat it raw forever. He needed fire.He hung the pig high in a tree to keep it away from other predators and went to work. He gathered piles of dry leaves and tinder. On his way back to the shelter, he had found two white stones—quartz-like rocks that looked like they held a secret.He sat by his small "house" and began to rub the white stones together. He rubbed for five minutes, then ten. His arms ached. His blisters broke and bled."Please," he whispered to the rocks. "Just once."Twenty-five minutes into the grueling task, a tiny, golden spark jumped from the stones and landed in the center of the dry leaves. A thin ribbon of gray smoke rose up. Jack held his breath, gently blowing on the ember.Fwoosh.The leaves caught. A small, orange flame licked at the air. Jack stared at it, "astonished." He had seen fire a thousand times in fireplaces and on stoves, but he had never made it.That evening, as the sun began to set, Jack sat by his fire. He cooked the meat, the smell filling the air and making his mouth water. He ate his dinner slowly, watching the flames dance. He looked at the marks on his tree and then at the dark, mysterious jungle behind him.He was tired, his body was covered in scars, and he missed his parents terribly. But as he crawled into his very small house to sleep, he knew one thing for certain:The billionaire’s son was gone. Jack the Survivor was home.
