2. Survivors
1219 Words
I didn't expect to wake up.
But I did. My eyes opened, there was sand beneath my fingers, sun on my face, and warmth that shouldn't exist after a plane crash at thirty thousand feet.
I felt pain, too. A dull throb behind my eyes, a gash on my scalp that wept into my hair. My shoulder ached where I'd hit the cockpit doorframe.
I sat up too fast, even though I felt dark spots swimming.
"No, no, no..." I pressed my palm to my head, feeling the sticky warmth of blood. "Stay awake. Stay awake. You have to stay awake."
My ears suddenly rang with my grandfather's voice from twenty years ago, after I fell out of a tree and broke my arm. "Stay awake, Clara. Don't close your eyes. Stay awake."
I stayed awake.
The beach stretched white and pristine. There were palm trees, gentle waves, and a postcard of paradise.
Wrong. All wrong.
Someone wanted this plane to disappear.
I'd seen the warning panel. Heard Captain Reynolds's voice crack. I watched the ocean rush up with impossible speed.
There was no way I'd survived that.
But I had. My body was intact. No broken bones. No internal bleeding...I pressed my ribs, my stomach, felt only the ache of impact. Just the head wound, and it was already clotting.
I staggered to my feet, letting my eyes scan the beach.
There was wreckage everywhere...twisted metal, torn fabric, suitcases that had burst open and vomited clothes and toiletries across the sand. Bodies. Some floating in the shallows, others scattered like broken dolls.
I forced myself to count.
Don't think about them as people. Think about them as numbers. That's the only way you'll stay functional.
Twelve bodies. No...twelve people alive. I could see them moving, hear them crying, and watch them stagger to their feet.
Twelve survivors.
Including me.
My mind drifted Ethan. He was still in New York. The board meeting. The excuse he'd given me.
I thought about his face at the airport. The too-bright smile. The apology that felt rehearsed. He'd hugged me goodbye, told me he'd fly out tomorrow, and promised to call.
My stomach turned.
The emergency systems. Someone disabled them.
Captain Reynolds's words echoed in my head.
Someone wanted this plane to disappear.
And it happened to be the exact time Ethan hadn't been on it.
I pressed my hand to my mouth, forcing down the bile rising in my throat. It didn't mean anything. It could have been a coincidence. He could have genuinely had a meeting.
But the smile. The too-perfect smile.
I remembered the way he'd checked his watch before I boarded. The way he'd seemed eager to see me go.
"Call me when you land."
The possibility hollowed out my chest. If Ethan had known... if he'd planned this... then the man I loved had been saying goodbye, not goodnight.
I swayed on my feet, my vision was swimming.
"Clara?" Marcia stumbled toward me, her face was pale, and her arm was bent at an odd angle. "Clara, are you okay?"
"Fine." The word came out hollow. "I'm fine."
"You're bleeding..."
"It's nothing."
I pressed my palm to my head, felt the sticky warmth, and forced myself to focus. I couldn't fall apart. Not now. Not in front of them.
"Listen to me!" I climbed onto a chunk of fuselage, raised my voice. "Everyone, listen!"
The crying stuttered. The shouting stopped. Even the man trying to start a fire looked up.
"I'm Clara Ashford. Some of you know me. For those who don't...I run a company that's survived hostile takeovers, sabotage, and board meetings that lasted twelve hours." A weak laugh from someone. Good. "I'm going to get us through this. But I need your help."
"You're a woman." That was Gregory Moore, head of acquisitions. His suit was torn, his face was streaked with blood, but his eyes were still sharp. "Why should we listen to you?"
"Because I'm the only one not panicking."
He opened his mouth to argue.
Then he looked around...at the crying, the shaking hands, the wide eyes.
He shut his mouth.
"First things first." I kept my voice steady. "We check for injuries. Anyone who can walk, search the wreckage for first-aid supplies. Anyone who can't, stay put and call out. We'll come to you."
"Where's the water?" someone whimpered. "I'm so thirsty..."
"Water later. Right now, we triage."
I moved through the survivors, checking wounds, assigning tasks, learning names.
Marcus Webb was dead. I'd seen his body in the water...eyes open, mouth full of sand. I tried to feel something. But I couldn't.
Marcia was alive. Broken arm, concussion, but lucid. I made her my second.
Daniel was already working...moving through the wreckage, pulling supplies from the debris, bandaging a passenger's cut without being asked. His hands were steady, his eyes were clear. He didn't panic. He just... worked.
Gregory Moore was a liability. He questioned every decision, argued every order. I put him on water duty...far from everyone else.
By sunset, we had a camp. Lean-tos from wreckage. A fire Daniel somehow coaxed from damp wood. A stash of supplies that might last three days.
I sat apart, watching the ocean.
Thinking.
Ethan.
Hoping, praying and wishing he didn't have a hand in this.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away. I couldn't afford to fall apart. Not here. Not now.
"Clara?" Marcia sat beside me, her arm in a sling. "You should eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need your strength."
I took the protein bar she offered, tore it open with my teeth. It tasted like cardboard, but I chewed anyway.
"What happened?" she asked softly. "On the plane. Captain Reynolds said..."
"I know what he said."
"He said someone disabled the emergency systems."
"Captain Reynolds is dead."
I said it flat. No inflection. I couldn't think about his kind eyes, the way he'd told me to buckle up.
Marcia was quiet for a moment.
"Who would do that?" she asked.
"I don't know."
I said it too quickly. She looked at me, her eyes searching.
"Clara..."
"I said I don't know."
I stood up, walked away before she could ask more.
The fire crackled. Gregory argued with Daniel about signaling. Someone cried. I stared at the treeline.
The silence had deepened.
And then I heard it.
A whisper. Not words, exactly...more an impression, a feeling. Someone was calling my name.
I stood, walked toward the treeline.
"Clara, where are you going?" Marcia called.
"I don't know."
The whisper grew louder. But when I reached the edge of the jungle, it stopped. Just...gone. Like I'd stepped into a vacuum.
What are you? I thought. What's hiding in there?
A rustle in the bushes.
I froze.
The rustle came again, closer.
I backed away slowly, eyes fixed on the darkness between the trees.
"I'm not afraid of you," I whispered.
Something growled. Low, deep, primal...a sound that vibrated through the sand into my bones.
Then it stopped.
The treeline went silent again.
I stumbled back to the beach, heart hammering.
That night, I didn't sleep.
Neither did anyone else.
Because at midnight, something left footprints around our camp.
Footprints larger than a man's chest.
And the whispering started again.
Clearer this time.
Run.
- Writer
