Get me off this island.
Find me food.
The clouds vanish as if the universe mocks me. I stretch my arms up over my head, feeling the ache in my muscles and back. I ran for miles yesterday, the only thing fueling me the adrenaline that coursed through my body.
Since I landed on this island, I’ve been working my body to the bone, strengthening my muscles and core and not allowing a single part of me to atrophy. That grew more difficult when food sources diminished. Yesterday’s run wasn’t about training, though, but survival.
I’ll find both of the men today. The two remaining people on this island, if they haven’t died or killed each other. After I fortify myself and fashion some weapons, I will find them. I’m not going to cower and hide anymore. The more I’m bereft of the bare necessities, the more animalistic instinct takes over. I’m doing everything I can to mentally prevent the degeneration of my mind and body.
Stay strong.
Stay sane.
Stay fucking human.
So today I’ll prepare for an ambush. But first, I have to prepare myself.
After I’m sure there’s no one in the near vicinity, I walk to the back of the cave and relieve myself, grateful this one most basic duty is a good indicator I haven’t let myself grow dehydrated. The human body can withstand much in the way of starving, but dehydration is another story. I’ve been dehydrated before on this island. My mental capacities quickly downshifted to hallucinations, fever taking over. That was back when there were six of us. One of them—who knows which one, it all blurs now—saved me.
That was back when we cared for each other, when our training as soldiers made us band together as one.
If I let myself get dehydrated at this point, I’m sunk. They’d rejoice in my demise.
One less mouth to feed.
So, every day I get up, the first mission is to ensure I have enough water for the day. The second is to make sure no one’s going to attack me. The third is to find food.
I outfit myself with round rocks and the makeshift slingshot I made in case I encounter one of the others by the water. I have a knife, but I don’t want it to come to that. Not today.
Fortunately, there are multiple sources of fresh water on the island. I hope they’ve left this one for me. But I’m mentally prepared for an ambush.
I walk quietly down the bank to where the water churns, keeping an eye out for any source of wildlife I can capture to put some food in my belly. A flutter of wings overhead gives me momentary hope, but by the time I locate the bird, it’s flown too far away for my dismal excuse of a weapon to reach.
Christ. I don’t know the name of it, but the large, duck-like bird makes for good damn eating on this island. The first time we found a flock it was like Thanksgiving dinner.
But that seems so long ago now.
Once I’m down to the water’s edge and certain I’m alone, I splash water on my face and rub it briskly up and down my arms. I frown at my body. I’ve grown leaner though fought to remain muscular these past few months. My arms and upper body are still covered in the ink I earned as a fighter, before I enlisted. Navy SEAL regulations allow for tattoos that don’t cover the face, neck, or hands, as long as the uniform covers every inch.
I pause, my cupped hand raised to my mouth. Droplets of cool water trickle between my fingers.
I was a fighter.
I was in the Navy.
There were rules governing the way I dressed and behaved.
I blink hard.
The memory of who I was fades in and out, and when I remember facts, I hold onto them with vicious determination.
I go through the mental gymnastics I force myself through when the memories surface.
My name is Cy Kaufman. Raised an orphan in the foster care system in America, I have no family, my own family is the Navy. But now I have only myself to depend on, and no matter how dire the circumstances, I will not fail.
This island has stripped many things from me. It won’t strip my faculties.
I ignore the little voice in my head that mocks me.
It already has.
It already robbed the other men of theirs. Most of them, anyway.
I drop down again and cup more water in my hands, guzzling as much as my empty stomach can muster, when I hear a scattering through the underbrush. I turn slowly, so slowly it feels as if I’m in slow motion and see an injured duck. It’s struggling in the brush. Injured somehow. And I go into autopilot survival mode.
I was born a fighter and I’ll die one.
I pull back a rock in the slingshot, take aim, and let the ammo fly. It’s clumsy compared to the weapons I’m used to wielding, but with hours upon hours to fill my time, I’ve done nothing but practice my aim. I hit the duck with the first shot, and watch it slump to the ground.