Jack's breath came in ragged gasps as he pushed himself into a sitting position, his muscles aching with every movement. The sunlight was harsh, almost blinding, reflecting off the white sand. The sound of the waves behind him was deceptively calm, a gentle lullaby that mocked the chaos he had just survived. He scanned the horizon, but the endless blue of the ocean stretched on without any sign of the storm that had brought him here.
He turned his gaze inland. The jungle was thick and impenetrable, a wall of green broken only by the massive mountains that dominated the skyline. The taller one loomed like a stone dagger, its peak piercing the sky. Clouds gathered around its summit, giving it an almost ethereal presence. The shorter, broader mountain seemed more inviting, covered in a dense canopy of trees that spilled down its slopes.
Jack stood, legs unsteady, and took stock of his situation. His clothes were soaked, clinging to his body, and his head throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. He patted his pockets, finding nothing but the shredded remains of his flight plan. His survival kit, his radio—all of it had gone down with the plane.
'One step at a time,' he thought, brushing sand from his face.
As he turned to search for debris along the shore, a flash of orange caught his eye. Half-buried in the sand, the emergency survival kit lay battered but intact. Relief washed over him. He dropped to his knees, pulling it free. Unzipping it, he took inventory: the knife and the fire starter kit had survived. Everything else was either missing or destroyed.
"Better than nothing," he muttered, slipping the knife into his belt and tucking the fire starter into his pocket.
He turned back to the ocean, scanning for any other debris, but there was nothing. No sign of the jet. No sign of the storm. No seats, no panels, and no wreckage at all.
'How is that even possible?' he thought, his brow furrowing. The plane had been torn apart, he was sure of it. There should be something, anything left behind.
His stomach tightened. 'Did I imagine it? No. That impact was real. So where the hell did it all go?'
"Okay," he said aloud, trying to steady his breathing. "First things first. Shelter. Water."
He took a few steps toward the jungle, the sand hot beneath his feet. As he reached the edge of the trees, the air grew cooler, the shade a welcome relief. The scent of damp earth and unfamiliar flowers filled his nostrils. He pushed through the underbrush, branches scratching at his arms. Every step seemed to take him deeper into a world untouched by time.
The sounds of the jungle were a symphony of life—birds calling, insects buzzing, leaves rustling in the breeze. But there was something else, too, something beneath the natural sounds. A faint hum, almost like a vibration, barely perceptible but constant. Jack paused, frowning.
"What is that?" he whispered.
He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. Survival first. Answers later. He needed to find fresh water, and if he was lucky, some high ground to get a better view of the island.
He pushed deeper into the jungle, following a narrow animal trail. The path wound through dense foliage, the ground uneven and treacherous. Twice he stumbled, catching himself on vines and roots. Each time, he paused, listening for any sign of danger. The hum was still there, growing louder the deeper he went.
'Maybe it's just the wind,' he tried to convince himself, but he knew better. It felt too steady, too deliberate.
After what felt like hours, he heard it—the faint trickle of running water. Relief flooded through him, and he quickened his pace. He pushed through a thicket and stumbled into a small clearing. A narrow stream ran through the center, its water crystal clear. Jack dropped to his knees, cupping his hands and drinking deeply. The water was cold, refreshing, and tasted better than anything he could remember.
As he drank, he became aware of the silence. The jungle sounds had stopped. The hum had grown louder. Jack stood, turning slowly, every muscle in his body tensed.
The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere nearby, a low vibration that set his teeth on edge. He followed it, moving cautiously upstream. The trees parted, revealing a structure half-hidden in the underbrush.
An abandoned hut, weathered and overgrown, stood near the stream. Its wooden walls were cracked, the roof sagging, but it was intact. The hum was louder here, a low, steady pulse that seemed to emanate from within.
Jack approached, his heart pounding. He reached for the knife at his belt, fingers tightening around the handle.
'Who built this? And why here?' The island had seemed untouched, wild. Yet, here it was—a structure in the middle of nowhere, vibrating with that strange sound.
"What is this place?" he whispered, staring at the hut, the hum vibrating in his chest like a heartbeat.