the Island

We are going to die.

That was the first thought that shot through my mind. Maybe it's just a dream was my second, but then the plane dipped down again, shaking and rattling. I gripped the armrests like my life depended on it. Maybe it did.

Movement to my left told me Miles was awake, too. His eyes were wide, like mine. Normally, I'd have delighted in seeing him shook for once. But thinking you're about to die has a weird way of bringing people together.

"What the hell is going on?" he said.

"I don't know ... turbulence?"

At the front of the plane, the door to the cockpit was open. The pilot looked back at us, his expression tense.

He yelled, "You kids, hold on —"

The plane plummeted, and my stomach shot into my chest. A scream got stuck in my throat. Air punched out of my lungs. The ceiling screeched and tore and buckled and peeled away, exposing the sky —

Darkness.

Am I alive? Dead?

My mind swam toward the surface of an endless black ocean. When I opened my eyes, a blinding light stung my vision. The feeling of falling was gone. We'd stopped.

Blinking against the pain, the first thing I could make out was the shattered TV screen dangling from the back of the seat in front of me. The same TV I'd watched only a few hours ago. Was it hours ago? A minute? A day? I had no idea. I touched my face and head — no blood, at least. How is that possible?

Beyond the broken TV, where a wall and cockpit door had once been, was nothing but a hole with frayed metal edges digging into the ground. Where was the front of the plane? Outside, where the wing used to be, were shrubs and broken trees, dirt and sand. And out past the sand, endless water. The ocean.

Holy hell.

Panic tightened my throat and my hands shook.

We crashed.

I had to calm down. Deep breaths in and out. Own the moment, own your fear. Don't let it own you. That was my mantra in moments like this, thanks to years of kickboxing, and it worked. A little. My hands weren't trembling anymore.

I was okay. I'd survived. Which meant anyone else on the plane —

Oh no.

Miles.

When I looked from the window to my other side, I was sure there would be a bloody corpse. But no. No blood on his white button-down shirt that I could see. But there had to be some injuries below the surface. And he wasn't moving.

"Miles?" I croaked, my throat raw, as if I hadn't spoken in days. No answer. "Miles?" I tried again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

I pushed up and out of the seat, my legs unsteady. I willed them to walk the few steps toward him while I held on to the backrests of my seat and the one opposite him.

I might not have liked him, not even the smallest bit, but I didn't want him dead. He was spoiled. The personification of everything I grew up hating. Arrogant, rich, and egocentric, all of it bundled up into a single person. Hell, my family could probably pay rent and buy a month's worth of food using the money he spent on a jacket or shoes.

But wishing him dead? I wouldn't go that far.

His eyes were closed. And his chest ... If it was moving, I couldn't tell.

"Miles," I said firmly.

Still no sound or movement. My heart constricted, and my throat closed. It was too quiet. Just the awful sound of waves crashing against the beach. I put my ear to his chest. Okay, he was breathing. But unconscious.

"Miles!" I shouted.

Nothing. Now what?

Standing in front of him, I raised my hand then smacked him across the cheek, the loud crack breaking the staticy sounding repetition of waves slapping against sand. My palm stung, yet still no movement from him.

Dammit. I raised my hand to hit him again —

His light brown eyes flew open, locking on to me. In another second, they flitted with recognition.

"Oh, thank God," I breathed.

"Did you just hit me?" His forehead wrinkled, and his fists clenched white. Whatever. At least he wasn't dead. "What is wrong with you, Fiona?"

"Nothing." I backed away, glad to give him space. "And we have bigger problems than —"

He stood up, swaying, a challenging glare in his eyes. "Than what?" he snapped. "Teaching you to keep your hands to yourself?"

Still alive and still an asshole. "I'm sorry for making sure you were alive. Next time, I'll just leave you to die and take care of myself." No, I wouldn't. But let him think it.

He grunted, took a step away, and almost fell over. Quickly, I reached out and grabbed his arm, held it just long enough to keep him from falling. He scowled at me, but then he looked around, and something else flashed behind his eyes. Like the reality of our situation was settling in. He swayed again and leaned against the back of a seat.

"You okay?" It was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

"I'm super. Just fantastic." Was his speech a little slurred, or was my brain jumbled from the crash?

Pull yourself together.

I watched him for a moment longer, made sure he remained standing and wouldn't fall over, and then headed to the exit door in the back. Summoning all those countless hours at the gym, I shoved it open. The metal swung aside, and the stairs unfolded and buried themselves in the sand.

"Can you walk?" I asked.

He didn't answer, and instead tried to take a step on his own. But he swayed again like he was drunk. I held out my hand, but he growled and waved me off. Using the seats to hold himself up, he walked the few steps toward the exit. Twenty-four hours ago, I'd have pushed him and then beat myself up for stooping to his level. Now, I had to force myself not to help. Somehow, he managed to get down the stairs without landing face first in the sand.

As I came out and got my first look at the plane from the outside, my legs turned to jelly. My heart beat as hard as a jackhammer, and my entire body trembled. The plane, if one could even still call it that, had crashed with the front half of the tail section slightly digging into the ground, trees, and shrubs. Half of the windows were broken. Cracks ran all over them like spider webs, and some were completely shattered. And the gaping hole in the side of the plane where the wing used to be ... So screwed.

Backing away a little farther, closer toward the ocean, I could just make out a column of smoke rising from the jungle. Was that where the rest of our plane was? How far away was that? A mile? It had to be at least that, and I couldn't see anything between us and the smoke but trees. We were isolated. Alone.

Except we hadn't been the only people on the plane.

"We have to find the pilot," I said. "He'll know what to do."

"Assuming the pilot is even alive."

Shit. "But he's got to be. We're okay."

"Maybe we were just lucky," he said. "What we really need is the plane's computer. It's got an SOS signal. It's how anyone will be able to find us."

Someone could be dying, and he was thinking about an SOS? Only thinking about us. But on our own, we wouldn't be able to use the plane's computer. "We need that pilot, need to make sure he's okay, if we want to survive."

"Survival won't mean shit if we don't get off the island."

"Getting off the island won't mean shit if we're dead."

He took a deep breath. "Listen. It doesn't matter. The computer was in the...