Death was imminent.
Although Ash had taken a few necessary lives over the years, it had been quite some time since his last kill.
However, that would change today. Ash refused to share the island with the enemy. Therefore, the Australian pilot would need to be eliminated. The only problem? Ash could not find his target.
The Australian pilot had washed ashore – possibly armed – and had wandered into the depths of the bush land. Ash had followed the boot-prints in the sand, but he had walked far beyond the shore and the ocean could no longer be seen.
He found himself surrounded by tightly packed trees along with wild, untamed shrubbery. With every step, Ash’s feet crunched down into the leaf litter. His toes sank into the cold layer beneath. He shivered.
Consciously trying to keep the noise level to a bare minimum, Ash tried to walk slowly, but the dead leaves continued to crumble under his feet.
By the same token, it would be near impossible for the pilot to make any movement without a sound, so occasionally Ash just stood still and tried to listen out.
He heard nothing. Just birds.
As he carried on through the bush, Ash feared that he would be helpless without a weapon. But what could he use? Ash scanned his eyes around the bush and spotted a thick stick lying amongst the decaying debris.
Ash picked it up, tested it for sturdiness and then gave it a swing. It was a primitive tool and hardly a weapon, but he would have to make do. Ash could at least sharpen the end of the stick to make it look a little more threatening.
He carried the stick with him until he came to a small clearing. Ash found himself standing on a flat stone. Placing his swag beside him, he pointed the stick to the rock and began to grind it against the surface. Bit by bit, he carved a prominent spike. By the end his hands were in blistering pain, but at least he no longer felt utterly defenceless.
***
Hours passed.
Still no sign of the pilot.
Ash assumed his nemesis must’ve been moving around too, because he had searched almost every inch of the island, yet the target had not been sighted.
Clutching his weapon across his chest, Ash ambled between the trees as he tried to maintain focus. His body still hadn’t recovered from the sea battle and the hunger pangs seemed to come in waves.
He longed to lie down, curl up and rest until recovery – but he would never succumb to his weakness.
Keep moving. Stay alert. Be on guard.
In the heart of the bush, Ash found himself almost ankle deep in mud. He trod through the filth, but soon his feet were encased in the muck.
He needed to find higher ground. He trekked through the dampness for a few hundred metres and came to a wide ditch, surrounded by fallen rocks and boulders. Inside the ditch, was another pool of fresh rainwater.
He clambered down into the ditch, eager to quench his insatiable thirst. Ash then crouched down, placing his swag and stick beside him.
For the first time in several days, he caught his reflection in the shimmering water. He looked a mess. Barely recognisable. His dark hair was laced with sand, his eyes were sunken and cuts littered his body.
Before Ash could wallow in self-pity, he counted his blessings. At least he was still alive. For now.
Ash cupped two hands together and dipped them into the pool. He carefully scooped up the water and brought it to his lips. He managed to drink it down with only a few droplets escaping.
Just as he went to go for another dip, a smear of red caught his attention, directly across the ditch. Ash grabbed his stick, stood up and then approached the smear with caution.
Blood. On the rocks.
Ash placed two fingers in the red liquid. Still fresh. The enemy was close.
As if a switch had suddenly flicked on inside his head, Ash felt a hit of adrenaline run riot through his body. Part of him enjoyed the sensation, but another part loathed the fact a chemical reaction could control him so effortlessly.
Ash grabbed his swag, climbed out of the ditch and surveyed the scene. He spotted his own muddy footprints to the west, but then noticed freshly trampled long grass directly ahead of him. His senses at an all-time high, Ash carefully crept towards the long grass with utmost care. Creeping forward like a lion on the prowl, he held his weapon out in front.
Ash had only followed the trodden grass for a short distance when he found what he was searching for.
The pilot. He was there, leaning up against a tree less than forty feet away. He had his back turned to Ash, moaning in agony.
The bastard was injured. Perfect. The pilot would prove to be no match for Ash. In fact, it almost seemed too easy.
Keeping himself hidden, Ash knelt down in the long grass behind a fallen tree. He watched his enemy. The pilot wore midnight blue cargo pants, matched with a hooded wind-breaker.
There was a velvet stain on his sleeve. Ash could almost smell the blood in the air.
Just as he began to calculate his next move, the pilot pulled himself off the tree and limped into a clearing. When the pilot finally removed the windbreaker, Ash realised he’d made a false assumption.
The pilot was not a man, but a woman.
Ash stared in disbelief, stunned by the revelation. The pilot was petite, with a defined waistline and she had her long black hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. But the real giveaway? Breasts. She wore a fitted grey t-shirt, accentuating her bust.
Had he gender stereotyped? Yes. Guilty as charged.
But the fact was indisputable. The pilot was female, and now Ash found himself conflicted. The chemicals inside his brain fired up once more.
Although it was hardly uncommon for women to sign up to the air force these days, there were still very few female pilots. He had only come across two his entire career.
In a moment of clarity, Ash knew he was only trying to justify his own sexist assumption. He had undeniably jumped to conclusions.
Still, he was second-guessing himself. His plan didn’t seem as simple anymore.
Ash had killed men before, but never a woman.
The lives he had taken had all been in self-defence too, but to kill an injured woman? No doubt he would sink to a new low.
A cry echoed through the bush as the pilot dropped to the ground and wailed. She nursed her arm, cradling her beaten body. It was hard to distinguish the full extent of her impairments, but she was hurt. Badly. In fact, her survival suddenly seemed far more remarkable than his.
Gripping his stick ever tighter, Ash knew he needed to make a decision.
He acknowledged his empathy towards the wounded pilot, but he could not let his emotions cloud his judgement.
They were at war. There would be no mercy for the antagonist.
The pilot’s gender was a moot point – she was still the enemy. No doubt she would kill him if she had the chance, so he was left with no other choice.
Ash would remain in the shadows; wait for the sun to set, and then make his attack in the darkness.