7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

L aura

The wind whips across my face as I pick my way through the scrub bushes down to the shore. It took long days for the storm to blow itself out and this is the first time it was safe to walk to the shore from the compound.

The zodiac is missing from the beach. Obviously washed out to sea in the high waves. I stand still for a moment as I acknowledge that was my last hope of getting off this island.

I turn my attention to The Endurance . Or what’s left of it. The boat looms ahead, a twisted, mangled wreck that juts out from the rocky coastline like a broken tooth.

I approach cautiously. Though I’ve only been alone on this island for a few days, I find that I’m talking to myself without a second thought.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Laura. Nothing has gone your way in days. Don’t expect to find a year’s worth of fuel for the generator in what’s left of this wreck.”

The lightning strike did a number on the vessel, its once-sleek lines now jagged and charred. But as I draw closer, I feel a flicker of hope. The damage is extensive, but the boat isn’t fully submerged. If I’m lucky, there might be some fuel left in the tanks .

I clamber aboard, my boots slipping on the slick, tilted deck. The acrid stench of burned plastic and melted wiring assaults my nostrils, making my eyes water. But I press on, driven by a desperate need to find something, anything, that might help me survive.

The fuel tanks are located near the stern, and I make my way toward them, picking my way carefully through the debris. I may be stranded on this crappy island, but I encounter a bit of luck when I find the gas can bobbing nearby, tethered to the tank with a short rope. My hands are shaking as I unscrew the cap to the fuel tank, my breath coming in short, anxious gasps.

Please, let there be something left. Please.

I insert the siphon hose, my heart in my throat. I’ve seen this in movies, so I take a deep breath, suck on the end, and then place it in the gas can. For a moment, there’s nothing but the burn of gas in my mouth and nostrils.

And then, a trickle. A blessed, beautiful trickle of fuel slowly fills the can, sloshing against the sides with a sound that’s almost musical.

I want to weep with relief, but I don’t have time for that now. I need to focus, to make the most of this unexpected windfall.

After filling the can, I seal it and set it aside. But I’m not done yet. The boat’s galley might still hold some supplies, some precious morsels of food that could mean the difference between life and death.

I make my way below deck, the darkness closing in around me. The galley is a mess, cabinet doors hanging off their hinges and broken glass littering the floor. But as I rummage through the wreckage, I feel a surge of triumph.

Cans of food and although their labels are torn and water-stained, they’re still legible. I gather them up like a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter, my arms laden with this precious cargo .

It’s not much, a few days’ worth of meals at best. But it’s something, a glimmer of hope in the darkness that has enshrouded me since Garrison’s betrayal.

I’ve been saving the best for last, praying all the while. With my backpack filled with food and the gas can holding the last drops of fuel, I paw through the console and, holding my breath, I look under the front seats.

My hand shakes when it touches metal. I withdraw what could be a tackle box or could hold what I’ve been hoping to find. The latch clicks open and there, kept dry within two Ziplock bags, are six flares.

I can’t believe my luck… luck? Well, I guess everything is relative. There are even instructions in the inner bag.

I make my way back to shore, my booty stuffed in my backpack. My steps are lighter despite the weight of the fuel and the cans of food. I’ve bought myself some time, a chance to regroup and figure out my next move.

I squat near the shoreline and read the directions. The four orange flares are for daytime and can be seen three to seven miles away, depending on weather conditions.

With shaking hands, I read that the two larger flares are called parachute flares and can be seen up to fifty miles away.

My lips tremble, and it takes all my inner strength not to lie down on the sand and weep. Although I thought I was made of sterner stuff, I guess I’m weaker than I thought. I’m the one who found the Fortuna . I’m well acquainted with how far this little uninhabited island is from the coast of Norway. Ninety-two miles. Almost twice as far as the flare is designed for.

“Okay, Laura. You can lie here for exactly five minutes. You want to feel sorry for yourself? You want to wallow in it? Do it for all it’s worth because in five minutes, you’re going to wipe your eyes, stand up, and light the first orange flare. Someone might be fishing nearby. You never know. ”

After a pep talk like that, I decide not to use my five allotted minutes to cry. Instead, I re-read the instructions, leave my gear at my feet, and walk to the highest rocks near the shore. I follow the instructions to the letter and watch as the flare whistles into the sky, and then bursts into orange smoke.

My heart sinks as I watch the underwhelming display. I’m so far from anywhere, I imagine the odds are a million to one that anyone could have possibly seen it.

Still, I sit on the rocky outcropping for an hour on the off chance someone is speeding to my rescue. Finally, when all hope has spooled out of me, I gather my gear and trudge back to the camp, my mind whirring with the grim reality of my situation.

I’ll use two of the other flares and one of the parachute flares over the next few days, keeping one of each kind—one for night and one for day—in case I hear a motor. The fuel and food are a temporary reprieve, but they won’t last forever.

No one knows I’m even here. That grim thought haunts me. My extreme paranoia of this location being scooped by other treasure seekers was only exceeded by Garrison’s need for secrecy.

I told friends and family I’d be back by October first, but made it sound exciting that I couldn’t reveal my exact location. When I left my landlady a note and a few months’ rent, I hadn’t a clue that I’d soon be starving to death on an island thousands of miles away from home.

I think of Garrison and the smug, self-satisfied smirk that’s probably plastered across his face right now as he counts his ill-gotten gains. The thought of him lounging in luxury while I fight for survival sends a surge of rage racing through me, hot and bitter.

But I can’t afford to dwell on that now. I need to focus on the present, on the task at hand. I have fuel for the generator and food for my belly—more than I had yesterday.

It’s not much, but it’s something. And in this cold, unforgiving wasteland, something is a precious commodity indeed.

I may be alone, abandoned, and betrayed. But I’m not beaten. Not yet.