The Continent (The Continent #1)(23)

“Take me with you,” I whisper, in a voice that doesn’t sound anything like my own.

The daylight is beginning to fade now, the sky turning dusky orange as the sun sets. I try to determine how long it’s been since the heli-plane went down, but it’s no use—my mind refuses to organize itself. All I can conclude with any clarity is that it will be dark soon, and with the dark will come colder temperatures.

After a moment of hesitation, I push open the door and reach for the parachute. A quick tug makes it clear that the chute is caught on something; I pull harder, but it won’t budge. Frustrated and tired, I slip over the side and climb around to see what’s wrong. The canopy is snagged on the scraggly branches of a fallen tree; I work it free, gather it together, and climb back inside the pod.

The fabric is immense, and freezing to the touch. But after folding it into many layers and curling up underneath, I do feel considerably warmer.

A heli-plane will surely arrive to collect me at any moment. The flashing red light must indicate some sort of beacon; I watch it for a few minutes, my reflection appearing in the glass each time it blinks. My face looks oddly serene, peering out of the makeshift blanket with hollow eyes and a placid expression.

I close my eyes again. This time, I sleep.

I wake suddenly in the pitch black, disoriented until the quick red flash of the pod’s interior light reminds me where I am. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep, but of greater concern is the fact that night has fallen and no one has come to retrieve me. Was there a second aircraft in the hangar at Ivanel? Surely there must have been, but perhaps the rescue plane must wait until morning—maybe they weren’t able to organize a search before nightfall.

They will come at daybreak. Only a few more hours here alone.

Alone. I push aside the image of my mother and father standing beside the pod on the heli-plane, their fingers intertwined, their eyes full of pain. I can’t think of it.

The sun rises quickly, its muted yellow light bleeding across the morning sky. I’ve been awake for hours. The day is a welcome sight, and I half expect to hear Mrs. Shaw remarking on its having taken forever to show itself. But Mrs. Shaw is not here. No one is here.

I wish the heli-plane would come.

The sun is overhead now, but there is still no sign of a plane. There is no sign of anything, for that matter; the tiny clearing is eerily quiet. The pillar of smoke is gone, the sky clear save for a few clouds.

Why haven’t they come?

As night falls once again, it occurs to me that it has been more than twenty-four hours since the crash. Something is wrong. Ivanel should have sent someone to search for survivors by now. Surely the pilot would have submitted a distress call? The light inside the pod is still flashing—calling, I hope, to my rescuers.

My stomach aches, though whether from hunger or grief I could not say, and my throat hurts. I have eaten some snow, but it made me feel dreadfully cold and did little to quench my thirst. I am tired—in fact, I don’t know if I have ever been so very tired. I wish I could sleep a thousand days. I wish my mother and father were here.

I sleep, but fitfully, and awaken again before dawn. I stare up through the glass at a breathtaking sky sparkling with stars. I think to myself how beautiful it is, and shame washes over me. Eight people are dead. How dare I enjoy anything?

I close my eyes, forbidding myself to look on the starry night.

I am hungry.

Around noon, I decide to try and melt the snow before consuming any more of it. I accomplish this by scooping a handful into a small corner of the parachute, which I have determined to be quite waterproof despite its silken texture. Then I hold the little bag of snow against my body until it melts. This takes much longer than I anticipated, but the result is actual, liquid water, and I’m grateful for it.

It has been two days. I am starting to doubt whether anyone is looking for me. A hundred scenarios have played out in my mind—perhaps they came at night while I was asleep and I didn’t hear the plane. Perhaps the signal from the escape pod isn’t strong enough, and they can’t find me. Perhaps there is no signal—only a maddening red light that blinks incessantly for no reason at all.

If they haven’t come for me by tomorrow afternoon, I’m going to have to find some food.

Three days stranded, and no one has come. I’m sick with hunger. I feel certain that I should not leave the escape pod, but I can’t wait any longer—I must find something to eat.

I step outside into a fresh dusting of powdery snow, its surface brilliant and blinding. Turning around a few times, I try to figure out which way to go. The last time I looked out the window of the heli-plane, we were above the mountains southeast of the Riverbed—in part of the area known as the Divide. But while the pod was in the air, it was clear that the plane had edged just past the peaks and crossed into the southeastern side of the Continent. I am in Aven’ei territory—probably less than an hour’s flight from Ivanel. An hour away from a hot meal, a long bath, and a warm bed. But without a plane, I might as well be on another planet.

A breeze picks up, swirling the fallen snow into the air in feathery gusts. I shiver; though the sun burns overhead like a diamond, its warmth is entirely lost on the Continent. Clearly, I cannot venture out in search of food without a coat or something like it.

After a moment’s deliberation, I reach into the pod, pull a section of the parachute toward me, and study it closely. I tug at one of the seams along the edge, trying to rip away some of the fabric, but it is far too sturdily made. It will have to be cut somehow. A few minutes of exploration in the little glade uncovers no sharp stone or other debris—but a frozen branch might do the trick. I drag the corner of the chute over to the fallen tree and rub the fabric back and forth, attempting to saw through the heavy weave. It does not work. Frustrated, I lean against the pod, thinking. There must be a way to pierce the cloth. To pierce it. I turn back to the jagged branch, lift the chute high above my head, and jam it down with all my strength. A gnarled finger of frozen wood breaks through, making a hole at least four inches wide. Once punctured, the chute rips easily in a long straight line. I repeat the process a few times to punch out a lengthy rectangle of warm cloth.