Chapter 1: The Thirst
The world was wet heat and the smell of turned earth, of salt and something sweetly rotten. Hitomi’s hands moved with a sharp, precise economy, peeling back the mottled purple skin of the fruit with her thumbnail. The pulp inside was a violent orange, beaded with moisture that might have been juice or just the oppressive humidity of the jungle clinging to everything.
“It looks like a mango had a baby with a chemical spill,” Katrina said, her voice raspy. She watched from a crouch, her back against the rough bark of a palm. Her designer jeans were torn at the knee, the expensive fabric caked in mud and something darker.
“Your critique has been noted.” Hitomi didn’t look up. She brought the fruit closer to her face, inspecting the flesh, then gave it a cautious sniff. Her nose wrinkled. “It doesn’t smell toxic. Doesn’t smell like anything, really.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“It’s data.” Hitomi used a sliver of shattered plastic from the crash—she’d pocketed it without thinking—to scrape a minute amount of pulp. She touched it to the inside of her wrist, waited. The jungle sounds pressed in on them: the distant shriek of a bird, the constant drone of insects, the rustle of leaves that could be wind or could be anything else.
“What’s the protocol for alien fruit tasting?” Katrina tried to smile. It looked strained on her lips, which were chapped.
“You don’t eat alien fruit. You rule it out.” Hitomi’s eyes scanned the dense green wall around them. The light was a filtered, green-gold soup, cutting through the canopy in dusty shafts. It was beautiful. It was also a closed room with no doors. “We need water more than calories. This is a distraction.”
Katrina’s gaze drifted past her, toward the clearing where the scar of their landing began. “There were bottles. In the galley. Some were intact.”
“The galley is currently buried under six feet of shredded fuselage and one very dead engine. I’m not digging for Evian with my hands.” Hitomi tossed the fruit aside. It landed softly in a bed of moss. “These vines,” she said, pointing to a network of thick, ropy lines hanging from a Kapok tree. “They might hold water. Cut high, drink low.”
“Might?”
“It’s not a five-star minibar, Kat. It’s a jungle.” Hitomi stood, the muscles in her calves tight. She was already cataloging their assets: one broken plastic tray, a single heeled shoe (Katrina’s, useless), the clothes on their backs, her own functional fitness. Katrina’s skill set—choreography, language fluency, that disarming smile—was markedly less relevant here.
Katrina pushed herself up, wincing as she put weight on her ankle. It wasn’t broken, but it was angry. “Okay. Vines. How do we cut them?”
Hitomi was already walking toward a jagged outcrop of rock, its surface sharp with volcanic glass-like edges. “We improvise.” She worked a piece free, testing its heft. It was crude, but it had a edge. She returned to the chosen vine, a thick, gnarled thing as wide as her wrist. “Stand back.”
The first blow was awkward. The rock skidded off the tough exterior. The second bit deeper, releasing a smell of damp cellulose. Hitomi adjusted her grip, her breath steadying. She’d trained for six months with a Kali instructor for a Yakuza film. The motions were different, but the focus—the channeling of fear into a single, directed action—was the same.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The sound was dull and percussive in the heavy air. Sweat traced a clean line down her temple, cutting through a smudge of ash. Finally, with a wet crack, the vine severed. She jumped back as it uncoiled from above like a whipped snake.
“Now we wait,” Hitomi said, breathing harder.
They watched the cut end. For a moment, nothing. Then a slow bead of liquid formed, gathered weight, and fell. It was clear. Hitomi caught it on her finger, tasted it. It was water. Stale, earthy, but water.
“Your turn.” She handed the rock to Katrina.
Katrina stared at it, then at the next vine Hitomi indicated. Her hands, usually so graceful, seemed clumsy. She hefted the rock, swung. The impact sent a jarring vibration up her arm. She let out a small, frustrated sound, more breath than word.
“Again,” Hitomi said, her voice devoid of judgment. It was a command, simple and clean.
Katrina swung again. And again. Her blows were weaker, less accurate. On the fifth strike, the rock slipped from her slick palm and tumbled into the undergrowth. She didn’t move to retrieve it. She just stood there, shoulders slumped, staring at her empty, trembling hands.
“I can’t do this.” The words were a whisper, swallowed by the jungle.
“You are,” Hitomi replied. She retrieved the rock, placed it back into Katrina’s hand, and closed her fingers around it. Her grip was firm, grounding. “The alternative is a very dry, very dramatic death scene. And I’ve read those scripts. The dialogue is terrible.”
A startled laugh escaped Katrina, edged with hysteria. She nodded, tightening her grip. She lifted the rock again, her jaw set.
While Katrina worked, her movements growing more determined, Hitomi turned her attention to gathering broad, waxy leaves. She fashioned a crude funnel, anchoring it beneath the first dripping vine to collect the precious drops. It was a pitiful output. A few mouthfuls an hour. But it was a system.
The water from the first cut was finally trickling in a steady drip. Hitomi guided Katrina’s head beneath it. Katrina gasped as the cool water hit her scalp, her forehead, her lips. She drank clumsily, desperately, the water mingling with the salt on her cheeks.
When she was done, Hitomi took her place. The water was the best thing she had ever tasted.
For a while, there was just the sound of dripping water and their slowing breath. The immediate panic had receded, edged back by simple, exhausting action. They had a water source. A terrible, slow one, but a source.
Katrina leaned back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “What’s next? Fire? Shelter?”
“Signals,” Hitomi said. Her eyes were on the canopy, looking for breaks, for a sightline to the sea. “The transponder on that plane is dead. But someone will be looking. We need to make sure they see something. Tonight, we build a signal fire on the beach. Something that produces smoke during the day, light at night.”
“The beach.” Katrina’s voice was faint. “That means going back through… through all of it.”
Hitomi followed her gaze. The path they’d stumbled down was a tunnel of torn foliage and grief. Back that way lay the broken silence of the wreck, and everything they had both been deliberately not naming.
“Yeah,” Hitomi said, finally. She stood, brushing the dirt from her palms onto her already ruined trousers. “It does. Drink more. Then we move before the light goes.”
She offered a hand. Katrina looked at it for a long moment, then took it. Her grip was stronger now.
Together, they turned from their meager sanctuary and faced the green gloom, starting the slow, painful trek back toward the carnage, toward the only materials they had to shout into the vast, uncaring sky. The first chapter of their survival wasn't about food or water. It was about choosing to be seen. It was about gathering the courage to walk back into the wreckage, not as victims, but as engineers of their own hope. The real work began now.