Chapter 10: More Than the Island
1452 Words
The jungle did not chase them.
That made it worse.
If something had crashed after them through the trees, Idris could have understood it. Teeth, claws, panic, fire. Those were problems a man could name, even if he could not beat them.
But the green only watched.
He felt it in the back of his neck as he and Tom retraced the hoof trail with the full plastic bottle and dented flask between them. The stream sound faded behind them. The insects returned in uneasy waves. Every few steps, Idris thought he heard movement off to one side, but whenever he turned, there was only leaf shadow and damp bark.
Tom walked too fast.
"Slow," Idris whispered.
"We have water."
"We have two containers of dirty water and no idea what followed us. Slow."
Tom swallowed and obeyed.
The bottle sloshed against his chest. Each sound made Idris's throat tighten. He wanted to drink so badly it made him angry. Not angry at Tom, not even at the island. Angry at his own body for becoming so simple so quickly. A few hours without safety and already everything inside him had been reduced to water, shade, pain and fear.
Then Maya's face came to him.
Blood on her hands. Red hair stuck to her cheek. Brown eyes refusing false comfort.
Peter needs water.
So do all of us.
He had answered calmly because someone had to. But calm did not mean untouched. His tongue felt thick. His lips had started to split. Sweat had dried salt-white at the edge of his sleeve. The pain in his ribs pulsed with every careful breath.
Average man, average body, average courage.
That thought almost made him laugh.
Almost.
Tom glanced back. "You all right?"
"No."
Tom blinked.
"But I am walking," Idris said. "That will have to do."
A weak smile touched Tom's mouth. "Fair enough."
They reached the place where the red berries hung beneath glossy leaves. Tom looked at them again.
"Still not touching those?"
"Still not touching those."
"They look normal."
"So do some poisonous things."
"You are a cheerful man, Idris."
"You should hear me after breakfast."
The small joke helped. Not much, but enough to put one more step under them.
A few yards later, Idris stopped.
There, pressed into the damp soil beside their own footprints, was another mark.
Not the huge paw print from the edge of the beach. Smaller. Narrower. A pad and four claws, half-filled with water.
Tom followed his gaze.
"That was not there before."
"No."
"So something crossed behind us?"
Idris looked into the trees.
The strange pressure behind his ribs stirred again. Faint this time. Not hunger. Not exactly. More like attention. The feeling of being noticed by something that had not decided what he was.
His fingers tightened around the burning branch.
The flame had shrunk during the walk, but the end still glowed red beneath a skin of ash.
"Keep moving," he said.
They did.
The light grew stronger ahead, pale and open between the trunks. The beach was close. Idris heard the surf first, then the crackle of fire, then voices.
Too many voices.
Not loud enough to be simple relief.
He quickened his pace.
Tom nearly stumbled after him. "What is it?"
Idris did not answer because he did not know, and he was tired of that being the truest thing he could say.
The voices sharpened.
Clara's, high and frightened.
Owen's, thin with alarm.
Then Maya.
He could not make out her words, but he knew the shape of her tone already. Controlled. Sharp. Standing between damage and the people foolish enough to make more of it.
Something in Idris's chest tightened.
He had known Maya for less than a morning. That should have meant nothing. But survival changed the weight of people. A stranger who held a wound with steady hands became important quickly. A woman who did not flinch when blood ran over her wrists became a fixed point in a world that had lost all its edges.
Clara screamed.
Idris ran.
Branches slapped his arms. His injured ribs protested with every step. The burning stick streamed smoke behind him. Tom crashed through the undergrowth with the bottle held tight against his chest, swearing under his breath as roots caught at his feet.
The jungle spat them back into sunlight.
The beach flared white around Idris, bright enough to hurt.
For one heartbeat, he saw only pieces.
The fire burning low but alive.
Rosa was frozen beside the luggage pile, keys scattered at her feet.
Owen was on his feet, face pale, injured arm tucked against his body.
Clara was holding Lily so tightly the child had stopped crying out loud and was only shaking.
Peter in the shade, grey and barely moving.
Maya was standing between Peter and the others, shoulders squared, blood dry on her hands, red hair tangled around a face carved from exhaustion and anger.
Then Idris saw Gareth.
The heavyset man stood in the center of them with the sealed water bottle in one hand.
He had not opened it.
That was the first thing Idris noticed, and the fact that he noticed it told him how close the camp was to breaking.
Gareth turned as Idris came out of the trees.
His gaze dropped to the full bottle Tom carried from the stream.
A slow smile spread across Gareth's face.
"Well," he said. "Looks like you found more."
Tom stopped beside Idris, breathing hard. The plastic bottle made another soft glug-glug against his chest. Every eye went to it.
Hunger had weight. Thirst had gravity.
Idris felt the whole camp lean towards the water.
"Put the bottle down, Gareth," Maya said.
She did not raise her voice. She did not need to. The anger in it had edges.
Gareth's smile widened by a fraction. "Which one? His or mine?"
"It is not yours," Idris said.
"Nor yours."
The answer came quickly. Too quickly. Gareth had been waiting for him.
Idris took a step forward, then stopped. If he rushed him, everyone would remember the rush more than the theft. If he shouted, Gareth would become the brave man challenged by the man giving orders.
The beach was no longer only a beach.
It was the audience.
Gareth knew that.
Maybe he had known it before Idris did.
Clara spoke from behind Lily's hair. "He took it while Maya was with Peter."
"I moved it," Gareth said. "There is a difference."
Owen's voice shook. "You were opening it."
"Was I?"
Rosa looked at the keys in the sand as if she might find courage among them.
Maya did not move from between Gareth and Peter. "You said Lily needed it. Then you held it yourself."
For the first time, Gareth's smile thinned.
Idris saw the shape of the situation clearly then. This was not only about water. It was about who could turn fear into permission. Who could make selfishness sound like common sense. Who could hold a bottle and make people wonder whether perhaps the surrounding hand had a point.
The island had teeth in the trees.
The camp had teeth too.
The jungle behind Idris clicked and whispered, but he did not turn.
He kept his eyes on Gareth, on the bottle, on the hand around the cap.
"No one drinks until we do this in the open," Idris said.
Gareth laughed once. "Listen to him. Back from the jungle five minutes and already making rules."
"No," Idris said. "I am trying to stop the first fight."
That landed differently.
Owen looked at the sand. Clara's grip on Lily loosened by an inch. Rosa picked up one key, then another, as if movement helped her breathe.
Gareth saw it too and hated it.
Tom lifted the stream bottle slightly. "We brought water. Dirty, probably. But water."
"It needs boiling," Idris said.
Gareth scoffed. "Of course it does."
"Yes," Maya said. "Because dying of thirst today and diarrhoea tomorrow is not an improvement."
A few faces shifted towards her. She was blood-streaked, tired and beautiful in a way the morning had no right to notice. But it was not her beauty that held them. It was her certainty.
Gareth looked from her to Idris.
Something ugly moved beneath his expression. Pride, fear, humiliation. Maybe all three.
The sealed bottle creaked softly under his grip.
Plastic complaining.
A small sound.
A dangerous one.
Idris tightened his hold on the smoking branch.
The island was dangerous.
That much was clear.
But as he looked at Gareth, at the bottle in his hand and at the frightened faces gathered around the fire, Idris understood something worse.
The island was not the only danger.
- Writer
