Crash

Trigger Warning - Threats of violence, extremism and survival.

Micas was awakened by the stabbing glare of sunlight against his face. He fluttered his crystal-blue eyes open, only to trigger an avalanche of the sand that seemed to constantly coat his face. Using the heels of his hands, that were no less grit encrusted, he managed to rub into being a semblance of sight. He sighed at the view he found, it was no less dire than the day before. Closing the plastic shutters on the aeroplanes tiny windows had been a pathetically futile gesture. One end of the fuselage was ripped open in a mess of jagged steel, allowing the dawn light plenty of room to invade. He groaned and with great effort, pulled himself upright and shuffled to the end of the row he had been using as a bed. To think he had complained about the uncomfortable seats when they were in the air! It was far worse to sleep across the ridged cushions night after night, despite knowing that what remained of the tail section was his best chance to fend off the elements. His back and sides ached, his arms were numb. He forced himself to stand anyway. Laboured steps brought him up the slanting floor to the peak of his broken shelter. Digging through what was left of the tail section kitchen, he pulled out yet another packaged meal. Micas tried not to think about how little life was left in the preservative-heavy dinners and after grabbing a can of coke, made his way down and out onto the beach that had become his new home.

It was beautiful really. The dawn sun rising over the ocean. Fresh morning air breezed over the white sand, whipped at his worn clothing and disappeared up into the tropical forests and mountains beyond. His very own pacific island would, under any other circumstances, have been a dream escape. Instead it was a prison. Punishment for surviving. A harsh vista that drained his energy and resolve at every turn. If he angled his view just right, and he often did, he could cut out the reminders and almost pretend it was the paradise it should be. He just had to ignore the lines of graves that decorated the shoreline and the twisted metal cocoon from which they had been thrown. What he wouldn’t give for just one of those other passengers to have survived. They could have offered him escape in so many ways.

“Come on Micas. You’ve seen enough survival shows to know its all about your attitude. The front end of the plane and its black box can’t have left us too far behind. They’ll still be searching from there, and eventually they’ll end up here. Just gotta wait it out…and be ready when they come.” He lectured himself.

Scraping his disappointingly small, foil tray clean. He summoned the will to stand from his sandy seat and put his positive projections to use.

The luggage that had fallen with the end segment of aircraft had been sparse and scattered across a huge distance. Micas had already rifled through every case and backpack within view and had come up with plenty of clothing. It would be a long time until he was without protection from the harsh sun of the day or the cold bite of the night. Longer, if he would concede to the women’s attire, but he wasn’t sure what the Nord’s rules were on such things. He had never thought he would need to know. Most bags were filled with now useless electronics, he had needed only one battery to start the fire. His knowledge of how to ignite a charge proving useful in putting the lithium to work. Without any signal, and he had truly tried everything to find some, the remaining horde of tablets and phones were now nothing more than pointless squares of plastic. The only other finds of interest were a selection of snacks and treats, collected from across the possessions of strangers, which were strategically rationed with the other food. Out of sight and out of reach of temptation. Scavenging work complete, he had recently decided to move on to more feral options. The cooler mornings were used exclusively for collecting both firewood and building materials. He’d be damned if he would spend any more nights than necessary on the back breaking chairs. He intended to build a raised bed of logs and construct a proper shelter using the loose sheets of metal from the planes outer hull. With this his main desire, he strode into the humid shade of the rain forest, scanning the area for anything that looked useful.

Micas had lost track of the days, although he did not think it had been all that many. By his fledgling beard, grown from clean shaven, he would guess a little over a week. What was alarming, was the rate at which he was clearing dead wood from the forest closest to the beach. His signal come campfire was burning day and night and becoming increasingly demanding. Forced to push further inland, he feared the dangers he imagined were dwelling under the dark canopy. He had hoped to avoid spending any length of time amongst the undergrowth. Since the soft drink cache that was essentially liquid sugar would never spoil and was stocked to serve hundreds, he had assumed fresh water could wait. If rescue did not come before the stores ran low, it wasn’t coming at all. Timber and potential fresh food, however, were becoming an increasing priority. The smoke from the fire kept the murderous insects at bay, acted as a beacon and provided a little warmth to both him and his food. And a bed. A bed, no matter how rough, would be heaven. As long as it was flat.

The undergrowth gave way to the boots Micas had stolen from an intrepid backpacker, their tread enabling him to delve deeper into the tree cover, bundling up a stack of branches as he went. He tried to always give himself a task to do. It kept him moving and stopped him thinking. It was important to distract himself from dwelling on his situation. Micas had spent enough evenings wondering at the people he had left behind, whether they would be considering him. If he would be missed. His family had disowned him long ago, he doubted they would care. In fact, they might be pleased to be rid of the burden of his existence. His new friends though, the group of men who called themselves the Neo-Nords, had given him a new family. One that was far tighter knit and aligned with his thoughts on the world. They had encouraged him on his journey, offered support and encouragement like he had never known. He had not realised what he had missed all those years of being a lone wolf, what a joy it was to have people who really counted you as one of their kin. Now that he was alone once again, he grieved the loss of that feeling as much as those who gave it. Focusing on his task and banishing the building dread and loneliness, Micas continued inland. Always looking in every direction was exhausting. Not wanting to miss a food source, decent bit of wood or a potential danger kept his head on a swivel. His mind, obsessively shifted visions of bullet ants, enormous spiders, panthers, poisoned fruit and snakes. He figured it was the half-remembered information about the dangers of a rain forest that generated his fear, and the reality was probably far less threatening. Sometimes a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

“Focus on the goal. A warm fire, a flat bed. It is just a forest. None of those things probably exist on a small island like this. You are a Neo-Nord. A warrior! Tough as they come. If anything dares attack you, you will destroy it” Micas said, placing his hand on the tattoo of Thor’s hammer that graced his forearm in reverence and comfort. He took a deep breath, steeled himself and strode onward, deeper into the tree cover.

Micas lifted another dead branch, frowning at how damp it felt in his hand. Before he could accept it onto his pile regardless, he flung it from his fingertips and dropped into a crouch. He had heard something. Like a whisper on the lethargic wind that wound through the tree trunks. Frozen in place, he listened, while fighting to quieten his breathing. He was sure it had been real. Minutes passed and as the silence grew long, Micas stood up straight, willing to shake it off as a moment of insanity. Which is of course, when it came again.

“…don’t deserve…life” It hissed through the branches.

“WHO ARE YOU!” Micas roared into the darkness, “FACE ME IN BATTLE, IF YOU ARE MY FOE!”

“…unworthy…” Another phantom voice whispered, “coward…”

“SHOW YOURSELF AND YOU CAN JUDGE MY BRAVERY!” He yelled back.

“…survivor…not victor…failure…worthless…weakling…”

The windswept words cascaded over one another, coming thicker and faster until they were indistinct from one another. A din of chorused insults jibed and attacked Micas until he could no longer take the overwhelming onslaught. With nothing he could fight back against, he dropped his bundle and ran.

Sprinting as fast as the criss-crossing leaves and branches would allow, Micas pushed onward, wanting nothing but to escape the voices that snaked through the forest unimpeded. He did not know what they were. He could only guess that they were the spirits of those who died in the crash, wailing from Niflheim. Or perhaps it was the Gods speaking to him their disapproval? If it was neither, then it was his own mind attacking him and against that, he had no defence. Not knowing what else to do, he ran, making for the beach and hoping the open air would free him from the torment that pursued. His legs burned, his shirt soaked through with humidity mixed with sweat and the undergrowth snapped at his arms, leaving welts. In no direction could he see the beach or any sign of his previous passing. Lost and in full panic, constantly barraged by whispers, he lost his footing and tripped on a hidden root that jutted from the mud. He fell badly, his weakened hands scraped and then gave way, dropping him into the filth. He lay there for a moment, before forcing his battered body up onto his knees.

“What do you want?” He asked desperately of the dead, the Gods, or whoever else it was that wished him to suffer.

“Justice…retribution…revenge…death” the voices said, changing the focus of their relentless assault in answer.

“I’m sorry,” Micas whimpered, “I know I should have died alongside the rest. It is not my fault I survived. I am trying to do what is expected of me now, but I have so few options!”

“…pay…suffer…end…die”

“I am a Neo-Nord! I must die in battle or I will never make Valhalla! I was promised that what I did would ensure it! How could I have foreseen that I would live where so many others would perish? I would end it now but there is no one left to fight! If even one of them were left alive I would instigate it, but I cannot battle stone or sand or trees!”

“Guilty…responsible…condemned…criminal…liar…fraud…”

“I know what I did! I do not deny it, I am proud! I rigged the explosive, I attacked the pilot, I took on the whole Odin-damned plane alone with nothing but a plastic knife! It was a battle for the ages, one that I am sure made every television screen in the world, one that will ignite the greatest clash of warriors in history! I did that! That I did not die with my weapon in hand was not something I ever saw as possible. I was supposed to be heralded as a great hero in the halls of Valhalla! Not rendered no better than a beast on this damned island!”

“Die…Die…Die…Die…Die”

“I CANNOT! THERE IS NO ONE TO FIGHT! I refuse to damn myself to eternal torment in Hel! Show yourself, let us battle and then I may die!”

“They…come…”

As if summoned by the words, Micas heard the sound. The booming of a ships horn, blasting from the ocean and carrying through the trees to his ears. He pulled himself to his feet with a gasp of joy. Not only at the sound of rescue, but the silencing of the voices that followed. He moved in the direction of the blasting horn and eventually burst from the thick undergrowth onto the sandy beach, not far from his base camp.

He stumbled across the sand as fast as he could and threw what wood he had left onto the fire. He danced and waved, hollered and whooped, doing whatever he could to be seen. Before long a small launch boat came into view, riding the waves straight toward him. He did not know who it was, whether they had been searching for him or if it was a chance sighting of his fire. Either way, someone was coming. People were coming. Finally, someone would join him on the beach. As they drew closer, he knelt to the fireside and hefted a palm size stone in one hand and a shard of metal from the plane in the other. He held them behind his back and prepared himself for what would hopefully be, a warriors battle that would be worthy to grant him his place in the hall of heroes.