Cristelle Comby - Alone Together

As time passed, Killian and I learned better to understand one another. We could not risk getting into another dispute like that again. It would be too much for either of us to handle. He was already starving and shivering to death in his skinniness, and I didn’t have the heart to bear the loneliness that’d come from losing him. Speaking of my heart, I think the one thing that’d saved me it from shutting down was jogging. My morning runs were what got blood pumping throughout my system, let me think. Of course, the blood went to my brain that much more easily and willingly after a good run, which made thinking easier.

It got colder as the days went on. Killian wore layer upon layer of the men’s clothing we’d found in that first suitcase. Eventually, he had to add some of the women’s clothing on top of that just to keep himself warm. At least the rain didn’t come as often as before. Still, dampness hung heavy in the air, seeping into us and chilling us to the bone, no matter how many layers we put on.

On the day it began hailing, I knew the snow wouldn’t be far behind. By then, we both had realised that we had to work more on our shelter’s insulation. We used whatever wood and dead leaves we could find to patch up any holes that let in a draft. But since the cold came up from the ground itself, I couldn’t get warm anymore, regardless of how much grass and leaves we piled up at our feet.

Two days later, the snow finally fell on the island. We awoke on the brink of shivering under our respective piles of blankets to discover that icy diamonds blanketed the entire landscape in an eggshell white cocoon. Mother Nature was proving relentless in her attacks, but we did what we could to fight her off.

Since there were fewer fish, we learned to eat slowly, savour the food as it went down. We’d always hunted for the right amount of food needed for a meal, never taking more. But our dwindling supplies forced us to reconsider. Given how few and far in between the fish had become, they must have been hibernating or dying or whatever it was that fish did in wintertime, so we took to hunting as many of them as we could on the rare days where they showed themselves. We buried the extra rations in snow mounds.

We kept a generous stack of firewood ready at all times, storing some of it inside the shelter to dry. By mid-October we had a fire going day and night. Survival meant being prepared. That meant being meticulous, ready, consistent and steady.

As bad as this autumn was, winter still wasn’t here yet. I was certain this island had more to throw at us; Mother Nature hadn’t unleashed all of her furies on us yet. I began to fear we wouldn’t survive it when she did.

What would we do when there was no food left? When the snow wouldn’t melt for days on end? Truly, how could we ever have been so foolish as to think we had a chance?

As the days went on, as we two—the odd surviving pair of acquaintances—went along on our not-so-merry way, the hours grew longer and colder alike. Nights ate at the days like the cold ate at the warm. We soon came to the realisation that there was nothing left for us here. This damn rock was sinking. Not literally, of course, but by way of freezing over. Neither Anne-Marie nor yours truly wanted to be here when it went down… because that would be when we went down.

Surviving on this island for so long had been no meagre feat. I’d hate to see our dignity, perseverance and diligence go to waste after all that. We’d been stupid to have wasted this much time in the first place. Then again, was it time wasted or time spent surviving? I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Either way, one fact did remain, the sole one we’d been able to rely on since we woke up next to the tail: no one was coming for us. It’d been months now. We’d both grown weary, tired and defeated, in the very worst sense of those three words. We didn’t have a prayer of making it through this winter. Half the tide-pools were frozen by now, and it was nigh unbearable to have to walk into the sea, spear in hand, to catch something. With the constant snow and no more food left, we’d only be able to survive… what, a week? Maybe two, if we were lucky?

The time had come for us to leave this island. Hell, it’d always been time to leave, but we’d wasted hours—days, weeks, even—on survival tactics and stupid, stupid arguments rather than trying to get off this hellish rock. Well, no more of that.

Agreeing on our next course of action was no discussion at all. Neither of us needed words to reach the same conclusion. Thus, we began promptly, Anne-Marie and I, to build a boat. It’d have to be big enough to fit the both of us and whatever equipment we’d need to make it back home or wherever we’d be going. It’d also have to be resilient enough to withstand the waves, which could get to colossal sizes out there. Finally—and this was the tricky part—it’d need to be made with what little material we had on hand.

Suffice to say, that left Anne-Marie and I in an ocean of a mess. Nevertheless, we started sketching out the details for the raft that would hopefully save our lives.

We ended up stripping most of our shelter apart. The fused triple panel roof made for a perfect hull from which to build. The last two months had more than proven it to be the most waterproof material we had to work with. We stripped the linings out the sides of our shelter as well, covering all the holes in the bow with these strips. There could be no mistakes, so we double-checked everything to be sure no water could get in.

Since we couldn’t sleep in the shack anymore, we made our way back to the crash-site, bedding down in the dilapidated tail-end of the plane. When it came to insulation, it was just about as barren as the shack, but it was the best we had so we huddled closer than we were used to at nights, finding warmth from the only place we could.

Despite the many layers of clothes, despite the constant fire blazing nearby, despite having a roof above our heads and despite the other’s warm embrace, we froze and shivered our way through those long, cold, arctic nights. Truly, we could not leave soon enough.

The weather showed us no mercy—not that we expect any at this point. As we worked on our raft, the island threw everything it had at us. Rain, drizzle, gale, frost, you name it, we caught it. We didn’t let any of it stop us, carried on despite it all. Despite the pain and aches in our bodies. Despite the bouts of fever and sore throats. Despite the fear and loneliness that gnawed at us both constantly.

Two weeks later, our raft was nearing completion. Our resources were more strained than they’d ever been before. Our stomachs were like constant black holes. The fire we kept going was our only glimmer of hope; that and the craft that would hopefully help us escape.

The deck above the bow was made from tree branches. We’d used one of the tail’s elevator flaps as a fin keel to keep us steady at sea… as long as we were steady too. In our current state, I didn’t think that was a guarantee, but because we had no better option, we kept going at it.

We’d entertained the idea of having a mast and a sail, which would have given us some leverage and direction. But our ship was just too small to sustain that kind of additional weight. I created some oars out of branches and suitcase coverings, just about the perfect size and shape for this voyage to my eyes. Killian obviously thought otherwise, as he cut into them to make them look much more hydrodynamic. Before, we’d have argued about that kind of move. Now, I just gave him a thumbs up in reply.