Fighting against his morals, Ash tried his hand at fishing once again.
Another two days had passed, and the strong easterly gusts had died down, rendering the ocean calm for the first time in many days.
Although there would always be a chance of another stinger encounter, the change of wind direction had minimised the risk.
Spear by his side, Ash tip-toed to the shore, narrowly avoiding the dozens of blue air-filled creatures lining the swash zone. He suspected the mysterious creatures were the bluebottles Ivy had been talking about – and probably responsible for stinging him the other day – but appeasing his hunger was all the motivation he needed to give fishing another go.
Ash entered the water and waited for thirty minutes under a scorching sun. He’d set his sights on a lone fish, looking similar to the one he had caught several days ago. After missing multiple times, Ash managed to spear it right through the middle.
He brought the fish back to Ivy and once he had her approval, Ash cooked and served up. Eating the flesh of a dead creature was easier the second time around.
In the afternoon, he took a stroll along the beaches, bringing his journal with him.
Just as he found a quiet place to sit down and write, a burst of sound could be heard on the horizon, gradually becoming louder.
Ash jerked his head to the skies just as several silver winged machines roared by the island. He sprang to his feet. For the second time, Ash could see yet another glimmer of hope.
British warplanes. No doubt about it.
Heart almost in his throat, Ash ran down to the beach and began to wave his arms, frantically. He then patted his pockets down looking for a lighter, but he’d left it with Ivy. Ash was also a fair distance away from the fire pit. Although catching the attention of his comrade would’ve been easier with a fire, he knew he’d never reach it in time.
He just kept waving – there was really nothing more he could do – and he hoped that someone would catch a glimpse of him.
It would be impossible for war planes to land anywhere near the island, but if they could see him, maybe they would send help? Ash prayed for some kind of acknowledgement, but there was nothing, and then the planes were gone.
Exhaling deeply, Ash felt the familiar sting of distress. His last chance of survival might’ve just passed him by and his optimism had worn thin.
Crashing back down in the shade once again, Ash opened up his notebook and grabbed a pen. Words began to spill out across the page.
November 22nd 2043
I have just seen British warplanes fly over.
Although I tried to get their attention, I suspect my situation has gone unnoticed, and death is edging nearer with every passing day.
I’m not saying I’m giving up, but I am a realist, and I can see my chances of survival are diminishing at an alarming rate.
Food is scarce and forbidden, the water is running out and my body is struggling in these heinous conditions.
I doubt Ivy will survive either. In fact, I think she will die before I do, but I will not be the one to kill her – nature will run its course.
All I can say is...I have tried. I did my best and I’ve fought as hard as I could, and maybe someday my efforts will be appreciated.
For now, I will continue fighting...for as long as I can.
Yours truly,
Ash Griffin.
Snapping the notebook shut, Ash tucked his pen away and closed his eyes. Had he written his final entry? He felt that it would be a fitting finale, especially considering in the coming days he’d probably be too weak to write.
He clutched the notebook between his hands and decided to preserve his possession.
In the event of his death, Ash would leave nothing behind but a rotting corpse, but in the journal, he could live forever.
Emptying his pockets, he found a clear zip lock bag – the same one he’d found the mobile phone in a couple of weeks ago. Ash placed the notebook inside the bag and looked for a good place to hide it.
He wandered along the sand and decided to wedge it between two fallen rocks along the backshore of the beach. It would be protected from rainfall, but there was no guarantee the words would survive the test of time.
Maybe no one would ever know his story, and it left him feeling more defeated than ever.