Chapter 4: Fourteen Left
981 Words
The tide kept climbing.
It came in quietly now, not with the rage of the storm, but with a steady patience that made Idris uneasy. Each wave reached a little farther than the last, sliding over wet sand, touching broken wood, tugging at loose clothing and trying to reclaim the wreckage it had thrown up only minutes before.
"Higher," Idris said. "Move everything higher."
Some people listened at once. Most stared as though the words had to travel through deep water before they made sense.
He pointed to the young man with the injured arm. "Name?"
The man blinked. "Owen."
"Owen, take that backpack with your good hand. Clara, bring the child away from the water. Rosa, put anything useful near that palm."
Names helped.
People moved faster when they heard their own.
Owen dragged a backpack by one strap. Clara carried the little girl against her chest, whispering to her as she walked. Rosa, a short-haired woman who had found a set of keys near the luggage, gathered scattered items with shaking fingers.
Maya stayed with Peter.
The injured man lay pale beneath the thin shade of a leaning palm, the belt and twisted cloth still tight above his thigh. The bleeding had slowed, but the fabric was dark and wet. His lips moved soundlessly every few breaths.
Idris crouched beside Maya. "Is it holding?"
"For now."
That seemed to be the island's first mercy.
For now.
They moved the luggage first, then the injured, then the dead.
That was the hardest part.
No one wanted to touch them. No one wanted to admit that they were beyond help. But the tide was creeping closer and leaving them at the water's edge felt worse than carrying them.
Idris lifted the first body under the shoulders. Owen, pale and trembling, took the legs without being asked. After that, the others followed.
Five bodies were laid at the far end of the beach and covered with whatever cloth they could spare. Jackets. Torn blankets. A curtain-like strip of fabric that had washed in from somewhere inside the ship.
It was not enough.
A woman's hand remained uncovered, fingers curled slightly as if she had been reaching for help.
Maya saw it.
She walked over, took a jacket from the pile and laid it across the hand.
No one spoke.
The sea did enough talking for all of them.
When they returned to the shade, Idris counted again.
Fourteen alive.
Five dead on the beach.
More gone into the sea.
He stopped there.
Numbers could become a hole if a man stared too long.
The little girl began crying again, soft and tired now. Clara held her close, though she looked barely steady herself.
"What's her name?" Idris asked.
"Lily," Clara said. "I found her near the rocks. I don't know where her parents are."
The next question hung between them.
No one asked it.
Maya glanced at the covered bodies and then at Lily. Her face did not break, but something behind her eyes tightened.
Idris wondered what she had lost before the beach. A bag. A friend. A life arranged in neat pieces. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
There was no time to ask.
He turned to the luggage pile. "We sort what we have."
Gareth stood near the surf with his arms folded. He had not helped with the bodies. His torn blue shirt clung to his broad shoulders and a gold chain flashed at his chest.
"Sort?" Gareth said. "That's your plan?"
"It is the start of one."
He gave a dry laugh. "Lucky us."
Idris ignored him and pointed to the sand. "Water and drinks here. Food here. Medicine here. Sharp things and metal here. Clothes and fabric there. Phones together, even if they are dead."
"Dead phones?" Gareth said. "What are we doing, opening a phone shop?"
"A phone has glass, metal, battery parts and a reflective screen," Idris said. "Even dead things can be useful."
Rosa held up a set of keys. "These?"
"Useful. Keep them."
They worked slowly, but they worked.
By the time the sun rose higher, their wealth looked pathetic.
Seven suitcases. Three backpacks. Two handbags. One sealed bottle of water. Half a bottle of orange juice. Three crushed chocolate bars. A packet of mints. Wet tissues. A tiny first aid pouch with plasters, antiseptic wipes and blunt scissors. Two belts. A hairbrush. A perfume bottle. A dead power bank. A paperback swollen with seawater. A lighter.
Gareth picked up the lighter and clicked it.
Once.
Twice.
Nothing.
He threw it down. "Useless."
Idris picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.
"It's dead," Gareth said.
"Maybe."
"Maybe? You planning to beg it to work?"
"No. I am planning to keep it."
Gareth stared at him, then looked away with a faint sneer.
The sealed bottle of water sat in the shade like treasure.
Everyone had seen it. Everyone wanted it. Lily most of all. The child's eyes fixed on the bottle and her lips trembled.
Clara swallowed. "She's thirsty."
"So is everyone," Gareth said.
Clara's face tightened.
Idris picked up the bottle. It was already warm from the sun.
"Small sips," he said. "Children and injured first."
Gareth stepped forward. "You decide that?"
Idris looked at him. "Unless someone has a better way that does not end with a fight."
No one spoke.
He crouched before Lily. "Slowly."
Clara helped the child take three small sips. Lily tried to cling to the bottle, but Idris gently took it back.
"I know," he said softly. "But we need it to last."
Maya took it next and wet Peter's lips before giving him a little.
Not a drop spilled.
Idris noticed that.
Then he capped the bottle and placed it beneath a suitcase in the shade.
Gareth watched every movement.
So did everyone else.
A bottle was not only water now.
It was trust.
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