Unseen Messages(33)

My stomach rumbled and thirst nagged my dry throat. We’d wasted enough time exploring and hoping that help was just around the corner.

We had to face facts.

We had to be smarter and focus on items that would keep us alive rather than kill us faster. “Want to go back and get the others? I think it’s time for some food, don’t you?”

As if on cue, Conner’s tummy mimicked mine, growling with emptiness. “Food would be good...but what?” He scanned the island that’d become our prison, protector, and home. “Just like I don’t see a mall, I don’t see a supermarket or fast food joint.”

“Think you’re so smart, huh?” I laughed, doing my best to keep my tone jovial. Pretending everything was fine helped keep my unravelling despair from taking over.

Earlier, when I’d come back from the other side of the island and found Galloway propped up and the two children fighting, for a single horrible moment I’d wished they hadn’t survived. One awful, spiteful, selfish second, I wished such innocence hadn’t survived so they wouldn’t know the hardships of what was to come.

There was no luxury of purging myself with tears of self-pity. No way of screaming for help like a crazy person. I had to be the one others leaned on. I had to fight, not just for me, but for these precious children who deserved so much more than what they’d been given.

Brushing sand from my jeans, I strode back into the forest. “I know where some food might be. Let’s go check the helicopter. You said you knew where it was?”

“I do. But the dead pilot is that way.”

I fought my shudder. “I guess that can’t be helped.”

“I didn’t tell Pippa this, but I hate seeing dead people as much as she does.” His breathing stuttered. “I really miss them. It—it doesn’t feel real.”

What rational answer could I give to such an awful sentence? I drew a blank so didn’t reply. “We won’t go close to the pilot. We’ll grab our bags and any other supplies we might need and leave.”

Conner scrunched up his face, swiping at a rogue tear. The heartbreak of his parents’ death never left his eyes. “Okay.”

I waved him ahead. “Lead the way, Mr. Explorer. Let’s go get lunch so we can tend to the other invalids.”

.............................

Tears, fears, disbelief, every gauntlet of emotion lodged all at once in my throat as the helicopter (or what was left of it) appeared before us.

“This way.” Conner led me forward, ducking under fallen trees and clambering awkwardly over others. Scars left on tree trunks and snapped limbs all added to the chequered disaster of our crash.

I couldn’t speak as I moved around the carnage. Without torrential rain and darkness, the aftermath of the helicopter astounded me. I was shocked we’d survived, let alone remained so intact.

The poor machine resembled a morbid form of entrails.

The detached rotor blades had landed not far away, spearing into the ground like javelins. The sides of the chopper were wrenched open and dust turned the machine into a relic. It hadn’t been too shiny and new to begin with, but now, it looked ancient. Tired and derelict and in no way ever majestic enough to take to the skies and soar.

I actually felt sympathy for the aircraft. We’d all suffered our own trauma, but this...it was destroyed.

Conner scrambled into the fuselage and disappeared.

“Hey, wait!”

I jogged and tripped, gasping thanks to broken ribs, wishing the blood on my chest would disappear so I didn’t have to explain my injuries to Galloway.

Clunking and the occasional bang came from the cockpit as Conner did who knew what. Skirting the torn fuselage, I stood on part of the skid and hauled myself up to see.

Conner bent over, bracing himself against flattened boxes and dangling seat belts. He kept his strapped wrist against his chest, rummaging with his healthy one. His coppery hair flopped over his forehead as he searched faster, throwing junk and paraphernalia out of the way. “I can’t find my father’s backpack.”

I was responsible for that. I’d been the one holding the luggage. I was the one who’d let them go. “Sorry, I lost them.”

“I wasn’t blaming you.”

“I know. But if I’d been able to hold onto them—”

“They can’t be far.” He made his way toward me carefully, stepping on an old magazine and ducking beneath some wiring that’d unspooled. “If we find his backpack, we’ll find food.” He swallowed as memories of his dad took him.

I didn’t speak as the air turned stagnant with grief.

I was as useless and soothing as a discarded tissue. How could I be brave when his misery reduced me to nothing more than helpless sentiment?

Sniffing, Conner forced his sadness away with the bravery of a man twice his age. “He always has a water bottle and muesli bars in there. He gets really jittery and hangry if he doesn’t have food.”

I flinched at the turn of phrase: has a water bottle. Not had. Doing my best to put a stopper in the pain in my heart, I was careful to stay on neutral topics. “Hangry?”

“Yeah, you know? Hungry-angry? Hangry.”

“How is it that I’m in the middle of the Pacific and learning a new word?”

Conner smirked, wisely focusing on easier subjects. “’Cause you’re shacked up with me.”