“No.” As if in a dream, I feel Tristan put a pillow under my head and recline my seat.
I close my eyes, drifting away, thinking of Chris again. Of how worried he must be.
It's daytime when I open my eyes; weak sun rays illuminate the plane. I've slept with my head in an uncomfortable position, and it’s given me a stiff neck. I massage my neck for a few minutes, looking around for Tristan, but he isn't anywhere in sight. I try to breathe in, but the air is thick and heavy, and I end up choking. Desperate for fresh air, I look up and discover the door at the front of the plane is open. So Tristan must be outside. I stand slowly, afraid the dizziness from last night might return. It doesn't. I avoid looking out the windows as I walk through the aisle between the two rows of seats, running my hands on the armrests of the three seats on each side. If I'm about to have the shock of my life, I prefer to face it all at once, through the door, not snippet by snippet through the windows.
I stop in front of the door, my eyes still on the ground. The metallic glow of the airstairs—the stairs built into the door of the plane—throws me off for a second. I clench my teeth, pick up my courage, and step forward into the doorway, looking up.
And then I wince.
The view outside the door does not disappoint. It is as terrifying as it is beautiful. Green dominates. The vivid, shiny kind that seems to flow with life. It comes in all shapes and sizes, from lush, dark leaves the size of a tennis racket to the moss covering trees. There is no pattern to the leaves of the trees. Some are heart-shaped, some round. Some spiky, and some unlike anything I have seen before.
Rays of sunlight lance shyly through the thick canopy above us. Trees block a good chunk of the light. Many trees. Tall trees. They tower over us, and I have to lean my head all the way back to see the canopy properly. I frown.
How did Tristan land this plane here unscathed? One look at my right tells me he didn’t. I gasp, my grip on the edges of the doorway tightening. The right wing of the plane is a complete wreck. I assume the other wing isn't much better. Two gigantic trees have toppled over the right side of the plane toward the back—with such force they have carved a very deep dent in the plane. Glancing back inside the plane, I see they have fallen right over the only bathroom. I realize with horror the bathroom is probably unusable.
Shuddering, I decide to get out of the plane. When I step off the airstairs, my feet get wet. It must have rained a lot recently, because the ground is fluid mud that engulfs my feet right up to the shoelaces of my running shoes. Each step sloshes, spraying muddy water in every direction as I walk. I inhale deeply. Or at least attempt to. The air is thick with suffocating moisture, but it's not excessively warm. It’s been warmer in L.A., where I’ve lived my whole life. But never this humid. My shirt and jeans have already begun to stick to my damp skin.
"You're up," Tristan says, appearing at the front of the plane. His hands are darkened with dust, and he wipes them with a cloth. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the neck and soaked, molding to his muscular frame. The air seems to get thicker by the minute, and I'd rip open my shirt—or skin—if that would help me breathe better.
"Engine still good?" I ask.
"Still dead, just checked it. There's no risk of anything blowing up; don't worry."
“And the communication system?”
“Also dead. The entire electric system is.”
“I know it’s unlikely they work here, but how about checking our phones?”
“I checked mine last night after the crash. Yours, too; I hope you don’t mind. I found your purse. Your tablet, too. No reception, obviously.”
I nod, but the sight of the damaged wing unnerves me, so I turn to look at the jungle instead. The wilderness unnerves me even more.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asks.
"I'd prefer to view it on TV. I feel like I've stepped into a documentary."
Tristan steps in front of me, eyeing my cheek. "You have a scratch here. I didn’t see it last night. But it's very superficial. Nothing to worry about."
"Oh, well…" I raise my hand to my cheek and my voice trails away as I stare at the diamond engagement ring on my left hand. Chris. The wedding. My beautiful, perfect wedding that should take place in less than a week. I shake my head. It will take place. They will rescue us in no time.
"I’m thirsty," I say, turning away from him so he won’t see the tears threatening to fill my eyes.
"There are some supplies in the plane. Not much, though. Four cans of soda, which are nothing given the rate at which we'll dehydrate in this climate."
I raise an eyebrow. "We're almost ankle-deep in water. Surely we can find some clever way to have clear water."
"I don’t have anything to make a filter good enough to turn this"—he points at the ground—“drinkable. Our best bet is rain."
“How about the water tank in the bathroom?” I ask half-heartedly, thinking of the trees that fell right on top of the bathroom.
“The water tank ruptured—I suspect the moment the trees fell—and the water leaked out.”
“Is the bathroom usable at all?” I ask.
“No,” Tristan says, confirming my fears. “Everything is wrecked. I crawled inside, and those are the only useful things I could retrieve.” He points toward one of the trees that’s fallen over the plane. At first I’m confused, but when I look closer I notice there is a pile of what looks like shards of a broken mirror just in front of the tree. “Mirror shards?”
“They are good for signalling our position, among other things.”