Stranded with Them: From Outcast to Island King

Episode 3

The sun wasn’t a source of life. It was a golden mallet, rhythmic and relentless, beating against Arkan’s eyelids until his brain felt like it was simmering in its own skull. He tasted salt—thick, crystalline, and bitter—coating his tongue like a layer of dried skin. When he tried to swallow, his throat sent a jagged spark of pain straight to his ears.

“Wake up, you piece of junk. Don’t you dare die yet,” Arkan rasped, the words barely more than a dry wheeze. He forced his eyes open. The world was a blinding, overexposed white that gradually bled into the bruised blues of an endless ocean. He wasn't in the abyss anymore. The blue light, the humming living thing beneath the waves—it felt like a fever dream now, a trick of a dying mind.

He was lying on sand so white it looked like powdered bone. His fingers, pruned and raw from hours in the water, clawed at the shore. He groaned, rolling onto his back. Every muscle in his body felt as though it had been unstrung and tied back together with barbed wire. His technician’s pack was still looped around his arm, the strap cutting deep into his bicep. That pack was the only reason his heart was still beating.

“Focus, Arkan. Priorities,” he whispered to the empty air. “Inventory. Shelter. Water.”

He sat up slowly, the world spinning in nauseating circles. To his left, the coastline stretched into a jagged claw of volcanic rock. To his right, a dense, impenetrable wall of green jungle shimmered in the heat haze. But it was what lay along the tideline that caught his eye. Trash. Beautiful, life-saving trash.

Plastic bottles, a broken shipping crate, a tangle of orange nylon netting, and bits of multicolored fabric were scattered like funeral offerings from the Azure. Arkan stood up, his legs shaking like a newborn colt's. He stumbled toward the nearest plastic bottle—a half-full liter of expensive mineral water, still sealed.

“Jackpot,” he breathed, his hands trembling as he cracked the cap. He didn't chug it. He knew better. He took one tiny sip, holding the lukewarm liquid in his mouth, letting his parched membranes soak it in before allowing it to slide down his throat. It felt like liquid diamonds.

He began his sweep. Methodical. Mechanical. He gathered three more empty bottles, a jagged piece of aluminum plating, and a sodden silk scarf that probably cost more than his monthly salary. He shoved them into his bag or tied them to his belt. He was so focused on the debris that he almost missed the voices.

“…not drinking that! It’s brown, Hartono! Do you want us to get cholera?”

Arkan froze. That voice. Zara Quinn. Even at the edge of death, she managed to sound like she was complaining about a cold latte.

He crested a small dunes and saw them. A group of about twelve survivors were clustered under the meager shade of three palm trees. They looked pathetic. Suits worth thousands of dollars were ripped and stained with salt. Zara was sitting on a piece of luggage—the same trunk she had insisted on saving—fanning herself with a decorative menu from the ship. Pak Hartono stood in the center, his wet dress shirt translucent, his belly bulging over his slacks. A few crew members stood nearby, looking lost, while Maya, the assistant doctor, was kneeling over a man with a bloodied leg.

Arkan didn't rush toward them. He watched. He watched the way Hartono clutched a small stash of water bottles like they were bars of gold. He watched the way the crew looked at the ground, still acting like servants even though their master was currently being roasted by the sun.

“We need to ration! I am the senior-most executive here,” Hartono’s voice boomed, though it lacked its usual board-room bass. “As your temporary leader, I will decide who drinks and when.”

“You’re the leader?” Zara snapped, her voice like a knife on porcelain. “My father owns twenty percent of your holding company, Hartono. If anyone is making the rules, it’s me.”

“Children,” Arkan muttered. He stepped out from the shadow of the dunes, his boots crunching on the dry sand.

Every head snapped toward him. For a moment, there was silence, the kind of silence usually reserved for a ghost. Zara’s eyes went wide, then narrowed. Hartono straightened his posture, trying to reclaim his crumbling dignity.

“You’re alive,” Maya breathed, her face lighting up with genuine relief. She started to stand, but Hartono’s hand shot out, stopping her.

“Oh, look,” Zara drawled, her voice dripping with practiced condescension. “The help made it. I hope you brought some tools, technician. My trunk is jammed.”

Arkan stared at her. His throat was a desert, his body was screaming, and the first thing she wanted was her luggage opened. He didn't answer. He walked past them toward the edge of the shade, his eyes scanning their setup. No fire. No signal. Just people waiting to be rescued by a world that didn't know where they were.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Zara shouted, standing up. “Don’t walk away when I’m addressing you. Did you lose your manners in the ocean?”

Arkan stopped and turned his head slowly. “The ocean doesn't take manners, Zara. It takes lives. You should be counting how many you have left.”

“How dare you!” Pak Hartono stepped forward, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. “Is that how you speak to your superiors, Arkan? I know your file. You’re lucky I don't fire you right here on this beach.”

Arkan let out a dry, rasping laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Fire me? Hartono, the company went down with the ship. There are no payrolls here. No HR. Just this sand and that sun.”

“We still have a hierarchy!” Hartono barked, gesturing to the huddled survivors. “Structure is the only thing that separates us from the animals. Now, show us what’s in the bag. Anything salvageable from the ship is company property. I’ll catalog it.”

Arkan shifted the weight of his pack. “No.”

The word was small, but it hit the camp like a physical blow. The two security guards who had made it—big guys who looked far less intimidating without their blazers and radios—stepped forward. Their loyalty was still a conditioned reflex.

“Excuse me?” Hartono’s eyes flickered to the pack. He could see the silhouettes of the water bottles Arkan had found. “That water is for the group. We are sharing everything. For the common good.”

“Funny,” Arkan said, taking a deliberate step toward them. “I didn't hear you talking about the common good when you were launching the last lifeboat. In fact, if I remember correctly, Zara said I was ‘replaceable.’”

Zara scoffed, crossing her arms over her ruined silk blouse. “And you were. The boat was full. It’s a matter of logistics, really. Don't be so dramatic. You’re here now, aren’t you? Now, open those bottles. I’m parched.”

“Arkan, please,” Maya said, her voice soft and strained. “People are hurting. We need whatever supplies you have. My medical kit was lost.”

“The ones who were here before the ship sank, Arkan. The ones who are very, very hungry.”