Uncharted(22)

It’s difficult to go back. Hell, it’s difficult to look his direction.

Princess.

Asshole.

You still believe in fairy tales.

You’re a fucking robot.

The barbs still slice and tear, embedded deep in the walls of my heart. I can see my own words reflected at me every time I catch his eyes. If I could take them back, I would.

I spend my waking hours by Ian’s side, stroking his damp hair and squeezing his hand with a reassurance I don’t feel. I do my best to soak up the blood around his wounds with a damp piece of gauze, wringing it out over the side until my hands are streaked with red.

When several large, pointed gray dorsal fins begin to stalk us through the water, I decide I don’t mind the sight of blood pooling in the bottom of the raft. Not if the alternative is a nine-foot long sea monster with rows of razor-sharp teeth tearing the inflatable into shreds and the limbs from our bodies.

My heart hammers double-speed inside my chest the entire time the sharks trail us. They swim with a predatory, prehistoric aggression, circling like wolves hungry for blood. It’s a few endless hours before they finally slink out of sight, and even after they’re gone, I’m haunted by the knowledge that they’re out there. Lurking in the depths beneath us. Waiting.

The thought is enough to make me shiver in the intense heat.

Hunger gnaws at my stomach lining, relentless and rumbling. Hours ago, Beck and I split one of the vacuum-sealed meal packets from the emergency kit — a paltry portion of granola that did little to tide me over. Blessed with a naturally fast metabolism, I’ve never been one to count calories or restrict my carb intake, never a fan of fad diets or juice cleanses, unlike so many of my friends on the cheerleading squad. Back home, I used to wake up an hour early each morning, so I’d have time to make a full breakfast before school. French toast, a frittata, an omelet, pancakes, you name it.

Enjoy it while it lasts, Mom used to say, shaking her head at me over a bowl of plain bran cereal. After you turn thirty, I swear you can just glance at chocolate and gain five pounds.

If she could only see me now — cursing the hearty appetite I’ve always prized. I’m so hungry I’d eat the glue off an envelope and award it a Michelin Star.

Still… ravenous or not, I can survive without food. But water?

That’s another story.

The two cans of diet soda stashed in my backpack are gone, split between us sip by sip until they were sucked dry. Beck’s stainless water bottle is nearly empty now. A gulp, maybe two, is all that remains. It’s not enough to keep even one of us alive in this relentless heat, let alone three.

I look from Ian’s feverish pallor to Beck’s gaunt face as my sandpaper tongue scrapes the inside of my arid cheeks, wondering if today will be the day dehydration wins its slow war of attrition.

Which one of us will die first?

“I will,” Beck whispers in a cracking voice, extending the bottle out to me. “Here. Take it.”

It’s only then I realize I’ve spoken my delirious thoughts aloud. I shake my head with the last dregs of energy, my movements sloth-like. Someone’s shoved a wad of cotton between my ears, muting every sound and color. The world swims before my eyes, out of focus.

“We’ll split it,” I insist weakly.

“Only enough for one.” He flips his wrist and sends the bottle rolling toward me. “You’re smaller. You need less. If you drink it, you might be able to hold out until…”

“Until rescue comes?”

“Rescue? Hell, I’d settle for a single raincloud.”

A laugh snags in my throat. “Your standards are too low. I’m holding out for a cheeseburger. A big, fat, juicy one with a pile of extra salty fries on the side.”

He groans. “Don’t torture me.”

“Sorry, it’s my only real pastime on this raft.”

“Talking about food is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Would you rather I throw a bailer at your head again? I’ll untie it this time.”

“Honestly?” he asks, attempting a light tone. “Yes. A concussion sounds preferable to dying of thirst.”

My chapped lips crack as a smile tugs at them. I can’t bring myself to comment on the irony of us finally getting along, now that we’re about to die. Come to think of it, perhaps that’s the only reason we’re getting along. We no longer have any need for pretense, nor the energy for verbal sparring.

I’m happy he’s ten feet away. I’m so delirious, if he was close I might find myself doing something stupid, like twining his fingers with mine, or begging him to wrap his arms around me. I don’t want to die, but if I have to… I definitely don’t want to do it alone.

“What’s that look?” he asks, eyes locked on my frowning lips.

“What look?”

“The one on your face right now.”

I sigh deeply and force myself to say it. “They’re not coming.”

He stares at me blankly.

“The search party. The rescue mission. They’re not coming, Beck.” My voice catches on his name. “We were hundreds of miles off course when the plane went down. We’ve drifted hundreds more. If anyone is looking for us… they aren’t looking in the right place.”

The words trail off into a depressing silence.