Stranded on an Island That Hunts Back

Chapter 3: The Man in the Blue Shirt

The man in the torn blue shirt arrived before Idris could move Peter.

He stumbled through the wet sand with his chest heaving, broad shoulders hunched and one hand pressed to his side. His face was flushed. His eyes were too wide. He had the wild look of someone still fighting a disaster that had already happened.

"We need to get back out there," he said.

Idris looked up from Peter's leg. "Back where?"

"The water. The ship. There might be lifeboats. Supplies. People."

Maya kept one hand on the twisted belt above Peter's wound. Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing yet.

"Can you see the ship?" Idris asked.

The man turned towards the sea.

Nothing waited there except glittering blue water, floating wreckage and the reef where white foam broke in angry lines. Beyond that, the open water shone as if it had done nothing wrong.

"She went down," Maya said quietly.

"No." The man's voice sharpened. "I saw lights. There has to be another section."

"There might be," Idris said. "But you cannot swim out blindly."

The man stepped closer. He was taller than Idris and heavier through the chest. On any ordinary day, Idris might have let him have the pavement, the armrest, the last word.

This was not an ordinary day.

"Who put you in charge?" the man asked.

"No one."

"Then don't tell me what I can do."

Idris felt the survivors around them listening. That mattered. It mattered more than the man's anger. Fear spread through groups like fire through dry grass. One person running for the sea could become three, then six, then half of them drowning in front of the rest.

Idris did not want to be the voice people looked at.

He also did not want to watch more bodies roll in with the tide.

"I am telling you what the sea already tried to do," Idris said. "It dragged us here half dead. If you swim back out now, weak and full of seawater, you will drown."

The man's jaw worked.

"So we just sit here? Wait? Hope?"

"No. We get the injured above the tide line. We count who is alive. We collect anything useful before the sea takes it. Then we think."

A harsh laugh came from him. "Listen to him. Already making rules."

Maya's voice cut in before Idris could answer.

"He is right."

The man looked at her.

She did not flinch. Blood had dried in streaks along her forearms. Her hair was stuck to her face. There was nothing soft in her eyes.

"I need living people on this beach," she said. "Not more bodies in the water."

Something in that sentence landed.

The man looked back at the sea. For a moment, Idris thought he would go anyway. Then he swore under his breath and turned away.

Maya exhaled slowly. "That went better than it could have."

"He might still punch me later."

"He looks the type."

"Good to know."

Her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not really. But something in her face softened before exhaustion covered it again.

Peter groaned.

The sound pulled them both back.

"We need to move him," Maya said. "Now."

They found a torn length of carpet tangled with plastic and dragged it close. Idris slid his hands beneath Peter's shoulders. Maya held the tourniquet and kept the damaged leg as still as she could.

"On three," Idris said.

"Do not make it dramatic. Just lift."

"Right. Lifting."

The faint almost-smile touched her mouth again and vanished.

They moved Peter a few feet before he came round enough to scream. Idris nearly dropped him. Maya's voice snapped across the sound.

"Peter. Look at me. Breathe. No, do not look at your leg. Look at me. Good. Again."

There was command in her voice. Not the loud kind. The kind that gave a frightened man somewhere to put his fear.

Idris noticed that too.

Together they dragged Peter above the wet sand and into the thin shade of a leaning palm. It was not good shade, but it was better than open sun and rising water.

The effort left Idris bent over with both hands on his knees, pain pulsing through his side. His ankle throbbed. His bare foot burned where the sand had turned hotter.

The beach had woken into confusion.

Survivors called names that received no answer. Someone tried to open a suitcase with a rock. A man knelt in the sand, breathing too fast. The blonde woman with the child cried silently, tears cutting clean lines through salt and grit.

Idris looked from one person to another.

Bodies. Water. Fire. Shelter. Peter's leg. The tide. The jungle. The wreckage. The child. The sun. Rescue.

His mind tried to split in ten directions.

He shut his eyes for one second.

Panic was expensive.

He could not afford it.

When he opened them, he raised his voice.

"Everyone who can walk, move away from the water."

A few people looked at him.

Not enough.

Idris shouted louder. "Move now. The tide will come in. Anyone injured needs to be above the wet sand. If you can walk, help someone who cannot."

Still, some stared.

Of course they stared.

They were soaked, shocked and broken open by fear.

So Idris pointed to the young man with the injured arm.

"You. Can you walk?"

The man nodded weakly.

"Good. Help her with the child. You two, check that man near the rocks. Do not move his neck if he is breathing. You, bring those bags higher up the beach. Maya, stay with Peter."

People moved because being told what to do was easier than thinking.

Not all at once.

Not gracefully.

But they moved.

The heavyset man in the blue shirt watched from a few yards away, eyes narrowed.

Idris noticed.

So did Maya.

"What is his name?" Idris asked quietly.

Maya glanced after him. "I heard someone call him Gareth."

Gareth.

Idris stored it away.

A name mattered.

Names became allies, burdens or problems. Sometimes all three.