“Still no word from officials after the city of Manchester was placed on lockdown following a chemical leak from Aeon Dynamic’s nearby facility, though inside sources have suggested that the affected area could be widened.”
–Kathryn Carson. Boston, Massachusetts. 8 Hours After.
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Was there anyone out there?
Distant clouds grew darker by the moment, waves beat against Purgatory’s shore with a rising urgency, and the stink of sweat was thick in the air as the last strands of twine were secured in place.
This was a depressing thought. A bloody miserable one, at that. Liam wouldn’t allow himself to think it often, but now that his final preparations were coming together, the bastard had once again wormed its way into his mind, and not even an approaching typhoon could uproot it.
He grit his teeth and kept working. Oh sure, the usual concessions could always be made. Rescue was coming, they’d just been delayed. Communications had gone down before the crash after all, and there was no telling just how far off course he’d been. This part of the world wasn’t tied to shipping lanes, so it was no surprise that boats did not frequent them by chance. That was all logical, and irrefutable, and not just some set of false hopes.
But then the oppressive weight of Liam’s time here always crushed against his resolve, again and again. Sure, he’d lost his radio during the crash, but the GPS-linked transponder would have told rescuers exactly where to come, had they been out there. Half the world had been watching his flight when it had first left Santa Monica. Someone should have come. It just wasn’t realistic to think otherwise.
No matter how hard he tried, the cancerous and unyielding anchor of doubt always made its way back in, leaving him with the simplest of all explanations. Nobody’s coming for you because there are no people left. A straightforward, clean, and wholly cruel answer to all his questions, and one that he lacked the necessary human support to disprove. Other than his old canteen, he had no companionship whatsoever, and Thirsty wasn’t much of a talker.
So it was that Liam Fenix had been trapped on this island he called “Purgatory” for well over a decade, though who was counting?
He took a gulp of water, his eyes focused on the growing storm. Though the sky was clear above his head, the same could not be said for the horizon. A grey wall had furrowed itself out there some hours before, leaving a darkened trail that bordered black in its wake. Now that the beast had marched this close to Purgatory, Liam could see the telltale sign of rain leeching light from the clouds through whitened streaks before spilling into the world beneath. Waves continued to batter against the shore as if to escape from the typhoon itself.
But as he studied the clouds anew and considered their pace, he wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and leaned back. Patience, Liam. There was still time to do this right, and he could not afford to make errors by burning himself out. Not if he planned to survive the day.
“Gonna be a long one today, eh Thirsty?” Liam said to his canteen, his breath evening out. “Yeah. Me and you are going on our biggest adventure yet. One that they’ll be talking about for the ages. If we make it.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“Not gonna lie to you, mate. The odds here are steeper than we’re used to, and we might not be getting out of this without a few scratches.” He sighed. “But we’ve got no choice, yeah? This storm’s closing in by the second, and if we don’t leg it, we’ll be stuck for another year. You don’t want to stay here for another year, do you?”
Liam let the silence hang a moment, twisting his canteen around. Thirsty was a military-style plastic green canteen, with a little smilie face and motto that read “Life is good” on the side. How long had Liam owned Thirsty? Since before the show, that was for sure, though it wasn’t until Purgatory that he’d begun to make conversation with him.
Of course, Liam was no nutter, and knew that Thirsty was an inanimate object, but old habits died hard, and he’d been talking to inanimate objects for longer than he could remember. Hell, he’d once made a decent living doing just that. Speaking aloud was also good for morale. Something desperately needed at a time like this.
Liam took another swallow. The dregs of his drinking water clung to the roof of his mouth, reminding him of the irony of his predicament. He had been forced into this spot after an intense drought, and had prayed daily for the arrival of an early monsoon season. But now that plans had changed and arrangements could not be undone, how he wished for nothing other than to have the rains be delayed another day.
“Best we get what’s left, mate,” Liam decided before marching back to camp.
* * *
His shelter came into view first. The plane had bounded off the beach during the crash and landed into the trees nearby, where it had lost both wings. Its fuselage had then flipped before stopping, which was fortunate, given the circumstances. Though it had been trashed beyond repair in the process, the brunt of its final impact went to the empennage and not the cockpit. It was a bloody miracle that Liam had survived with no worse than a sprained ankle and dislocated shoulder. He’d long since recovered from both and taken the wreck as sustainable shelter.
Smoke still hissed from last night’s fire, doing well to keep the flies away from his tannery as his latest pigskin patch cured. The sun cast a long shade onto his workshop, where he’d crafted all the tools he’d needed over the years. Knives and hammers, shears and firestarters, spears and bows. It was a shame that he’d have to abandon most of it soon.
His rations were looking good at least, as Liam had accrued a hefty haul of red snappers, along with a rogue yellowtail, tossed them in the smoker, and salted them into jerky. With a supplemental supply of coconuts, yucca, and the last of the pineapples, his diet wouldn’t be hurting for quite some time. The snares were still empty, but he hadn’t had high hopes that a pigeon or piglet would get too bold. This drought had killed most of them off.
Liam ascended his makeshift ladder, up from the base of the fuselage and into the cliff he’d renovated. The wood cracked and moaned with each step, but it still had some life left in it. Hopefully enough to survive the day.
Liam grimaced as he examined the network of hollowed-out coconuts that he fashioned his cistern. Not near enough. He had twelve total, each linked to a crude pipe network of bamboo shoots that filled first when it rained before overflowing into a nearby pool. The coconut shells’ insulation kept water from evaporating while reducing bacteria growth, and because of the way he’d landscaped the cliffside, any rainwater eventually worked its way down to him. But it had not rained in weeks, and so the pool had drained first, followed by the shells, one by one. By now, he only had three days’ worth of water, provided he consolidated them together.
A gust of chilled air cut through the camp, reminding Liam of the urgency of this crisis. It will have to do. He quickly scooped up what he could, funneled it all together, and made for the ladder. He’d have to remember to collect as much rainwater as possible as soon as he got the chance. There was still plenty of time to accomplish both goals.
But the moment his foot hit the ladder again, a rung finally snapped. Liam instinctively reached for the cliffside, but both his hands were full. His heart skipped a beat as his body drifted powerlessly through the air.
And then his head struck the ground.