Uncharted(16)

But now, as I watch it claw at the raft, as I see the unadulterated fury in its every ebb and flow, I realize I have judged a beast by the tip of its smallest talon. The seashore of my summer sailing days was the merest hint of this wild creature, thrashing thousands of miles from the nearest point of land. This, here, is the true heart of the ocean. The beast of Poseidon, unleashed.

Doing its damnedest to tear us to shreds.

“Well, go ahead and try,” I hiss, staring down the monster as another wave hits me in the face. “You can’t have us.” I tighten my grip on the rope in my hands. “You can’t have him.”

I’ve more than likely gone mad, because here I am, yelling into a hurricane… but I don’t care. The defiance emboldens me.

I don’t even know his first name, I realize ludicrously, eyes locked on the dark horizon. If he dies, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what that goddamned B stands for.

Over the howl of the wind, I think I hear him cry out, but the sound is snatched away so quickly I’m half convinced my ears have deceived me. But then it comes again, a shout in the night, calling for help. With aching arms, I heave him in inch by inch, foot by foot, until the rope coils on the bottom of the raft. When he finally comes into view, I see instantly that he’s not alone. There’s an unconscious man in his arms — one of the flight attendants, judging by the uniform beneath his life vest. I recognize him from the preflight safety demonstration he gave before takeoff.

If there is a drop in cabin pressure, panels above your seat will open, revealing oxygen masks…

A water evacuation is unlikely, however, life vests are located under your seats…

At the time, I thought it was a useless piece of protocol. I never imagined, a few hours later, we’d be here.

Living the emergency demonstration.

“Is he alive?” I yell as they reach the side of the raft. The flight attendant’s body is limp, his youthful features ashen white. I can’t tell whether or not he’s breathing.

“I think so.” Underwood treads in place, straining to hold the man above water. “Can you grab his arms?”

Careful not to fall in, I reach over the edge and grab the flight attendant by the lapels of his uniform, beneath his life vest. Together — Underwood pushing from below, me pulling from above — we attempt to maneuver the sodden body into the raft.

He’s so heavy. Deadweight.

My muscles throb with the effort of holding him as we pitch sideways, knocked off course by another large wave. He nearly slips from my grip.

“He’s too heavy,” I gasp, feeling tears sting my eyes. “I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Underwood growls, glaring up at me. “You can and you will. Now pull.”

I bite my lip and heave with all my might. Mercifully, the flight attendant flops forward, the inertia of his fall knocking me backwards. I’m already struggling to breathe from pulling him in; when he lands squarely on my chest, two hundred pounds of waterlogged male flesh, I cease breathing altogether.

Thankfully, Underwood scrambles nimbly up after him and quickly rolls the man off me.

“Is he breathing?” I wheeze as air returns to my lungs, crouching over the prone form.

Green eyes meet mine. “Faintly. I’m just hoping we can keep him alive until help arrives.”

I startle.

Help.

In the chaos, I haven’t let myself look ahead to anything beyond the next few seconds. When the plane crashed my future, once so solid beneath my feet, dissipated entirely — like stepping out on a frozen lake expecting thick ice and finding slush instead.

But as I watch a set of lush lips form the word help, that future freezes back into something tangible beneath my heels. Of course, help will be coming. Helicopters and search parties and rescue missions full of well-trained macho men, to pull us from the waves and return us to dry land.

Rescue — even just the possibility of rescue — lifts a heavy weight off my chest. Dread falls away and something else takes its place. It’s fragile, hardly more than a flicker, but it’s there.

Hope.

A low curse makes me look up. Underwood is frowning mightily, his eyes locked on the flight attendant’s left leg. It’s bent at several angles that are anatomically impossible, if the bones are still intact. Through the dark fabric of his pants, I see a sharp fragment of metal protruding from his flesh. A jagged piece of plane debris has punctured deep into muscle and bone. My stomach clenches at the sight.

“If you’re going to be sick, do it over the side,” Underwood snaps.

My eyes fly to his face. I feel my jaw clench in sudden anger. “I’m not going to be sick.”

“Then make yourself useful and grab the emergency kit over there.” He jerks his chin to the left.

My gaze swings in that direction and I spot a small black bag lashed to the side of the raft. A built-in supply kit. I’m floored to see my canvas backpack sitting beside it, along with a familiar green duffle bag — the one I accidentally snatched off a conveyer belt a million years ago.

“You brought my bag?” I ask, reaching for it with shaking fingers. I thought it was lost in the crash. “I can’t believe—”

“Wax poetic about my acts of kindness later; find the first aid kit now.”

I bite back a retort and fumble for the emergency bag. “What do you need?”