Chapter 2: Sewn with Salt and Vodka
The last of the light was a bleeding wound along the horizon, and in its failing glow, the reality of their situation hardened. The initial chaos had subsided, replaced by a low, constant hum of pain and fear. The survivors—twenty-three of them—were clustered in a makeshift camp beneath the palms, a pathetic collection of salvaged luggage and torn metal.
Izzy’s hands were steady, but her face was a mask of grim concentration. She had laid out her tools on a piece of unfolded luggage: a miniature sewing kit from a cosmetic bag, a half-empty bottle of premium vodka, a lighter, and a scalpel-like shard of plastic she’d sterilized in the flame.
Her patient was a woman named Carol, who’d been silent until now, clutching a deep, weeping gash on her forearm. The muscle was visible, a slick, pink layer beneath the parted skin.
“This is going to hurt,” Izzy said, her voice low and even. “The vodka is for cleaning, not drinking. And this,” she held up the needle with a length of fishing line threaded through it, “is what we have.”
Carol nodded, tears cutting clean lines through the grime on her cheeks. She bit down on a leather belt offered by the pilot.
Jamie turned away, his stomach clenching. He focused on the sheet of curved aluminum fuselage Matt was helping him wrestle into position. Matt was a solid presence, his movements efficient and strong. He’d shed his torn hoodie, revealing a tattoo that snaked around his shoulder. He’d been quiet, but his eyes missed nothing, constantly scanning the tree line, the beach, the other survivors.
“Angle it more,” Jamie said, his voice hoarse. “We need the runoff to channel into the mouth of that bottle. Any bottle.”
“You sure this architect thing isn’t just a fancy term for ‘overthinker’?” Matt grunted, shifting the metal. A rivulet of sand cascaded down the panel.
“Right now, it’s a fancy term for ‘guy who doesn’t want to die of thirst,’” Jamie replied. The design was simple: a large, concave surface to catch rainwater, with a folded lip to direct the flow. It was elementary physics, but without his glasses, the world was a blurry guess. He had to trust his mental model, his hands tracing the edges to confirm alignment.
From behind them, Carol’s muffled scream was a short, sharp thing, swallowed by the sound of the surf.
“Jesus,” Matt muttered, his jaw tightening.
“She’s lucky,” Jamie said, more to himself than to Matt. “Lucky Izzy was on the plane.”
“Lucky.” Matt echoed the word like it was a foreign concept. He glanced over at the doctor. Izzy was bent over her work, her profile sharp against the fire someone had managed to start with a lens and dry palm fronds. The flame danced in her dark eyes. “She’s stitching her up with fishing line and a prayer. That’s a new definition of lucky.”
The surgery, if it could be called that, was a brutal, intimate spectacle. Izzy worked quickly, her movements economical. Clean with vodka, pinch the skin, pierce, pull, tie. Each motion was deliberate, a tiny violation to prevent a greater one. The smell of alcohol and blood mixed with the woodsmoke.
Finally, she sat back, wiping her hands on a relatively clean strip of cloth. She poured a final, precious capful of vodka over the neat, if crude, line of sutures. Carol whimpered, her body going limp with relief and exhaustion.
“Don’t touch it,” Izzy instructed, her professional calm unbroken. “If it gets red, hot, or weeps anything that isn’t clear, you tell me immediately.” She looked up, her gaze finding Jamie and Matt. “How’s the sky-scraper coming?”
“Water-catcher,” Jamie corrected automatically. “It’s ready. If it rains.”
“It’ll rain,” Matt said, squinting at the gathering clouds smudging the stars. “Smells like it.”
They gathered around the fire as full darkness fell, a deeper black than any of them were used to. The absence of city glow was a physical weight. The fire popped, casting jumping shadows on the circle of haunted faces. The pilot, Captain Riggs, sat stiffly, his broken arm cradled in a sling made from a necktie. He’d identified nine others from the flight crew and passengers who hadn’t made it to the beach. Their names hung in the air, unspoken.
A young couple shared a single protein bar. The teenager, Leo, stared into the flames, clutching his stuffed fox. Eric, the man whose femoral artery Izzy had commandeered Jamie to help save, was asleep, his breathing shallow but regular.
“Priority one is still water,” Jamie said, breaking the silence. His planner’s brain was kicking in, a desperate attempt to impose order on the void. “The catchment will help, but we need to find a source. A stream, a spring. Something inland.”
“Inland where?” a man named Harris asked, his voice edged with panic. “It’s jungle out there. Snakes, spiders, God knows what.”
“God knows what is right,” Izzy said, warming her hands by the fire. The blood was finally washed from her skin, but it still stained her scrubs. “But dehydration will kill us faster and more certainly than any spider. We need scouts.”
“I’ll go,” Matt said, without hesitation. He’d been quiet, but his offer was firm. “I’m good with directions. Can’t get more lost than we already are, right?”
Jamie felt a reluctant surge of gratitude. “I’ll go too. Two sets of eyes.” He needed to do something, to move, to solve a problem he could actually see.
Izzy studied them both, then nodded. “At first light. Take something to carry water in if you find it. And don’t go far. Mark your trail.” She turned her medical assessment on Jamie. “How’s the head? Any nausea? Double vision?”
“Just the usual single, blurry vision,” he said, attempting a smile that felt like a crack in dry clay.
She didn’t return it. “Concussion is still likely. Matt, you’re in charge of noticing if he starts slurring his words or walking into trees.”
“Got it. Architect-watching duty,” Matt said, a faint, grim humor in his tone.
The fire died down to embers. People tried to sleep on beds of piled sand and clothing. The sounds of the island at night were alien and immense: the rhythmic crash of the surf, the rustle of unseen creatures in the palms, a chorus of strange, clicking insects. Every snap of a twig was a predator.
Jamie lay on his back, staring up at a smear of stars his nearsighted eyes couldn’t bring into focus. The enormity of it pressed down on him. The zoning permit, the breakup, the petty anxieties of his old life—they were ghosts, laughably insignificant. Here, the problems were elemental. Thirst. Hunger. Infection. The woman next to him had been sewn together with fishing line. They were patching themselves up with the garbage of their former journey.
He must have slept, because the scream jolted him awake like a live wire to the heart.
It was a raw, guttural sound of pure terror, coming from the edge of camp near the trees. It was cut off abruptly.
Everyone was scrambling up. Matt was already on his feet, a heavy piece of driftwood in his hand. Izzy grabbed her plastic scalpel and the vodka bottle.
Heart hammering against his ribs, Jamie followed Matt toward the source. Captain Riggs was there too, his good hand holding a burning branch from the fire.
It was Harris. He was on his knees, trembling, pointing a shaking finger into the dark undergrowth. “Something… something took him,” he stammered.
“Took who?” Izzy demanded, pushing forward.
“Leo. The kid. He went to… to relieve himself. I heard a scuffle, a thump… and then… something dragged him. Into the dark.”
The circle of firelight seemed to shrink, the jungle pressing in, vast and hungry. Leo was gone. All that remained was his stuffed fox, lying face-down in the sand at the edge of the trees, one button eye reflecting the flickering flame.