Free Pleasure Island by Anna-Lou Weatherley Page A

and relatively unscathed, he quickly took stock, his sharp, logical mind beginning to assess. He was on a beach, at least of sorts, the sun dappled sea stretched out in front of him, calm and almost perfectly still. He was filthy, covered in sand and debris, his hands black with a soot-like substance. Remarkably, aside from a small gash on his left shin, he was unhurt. He saw the wreckage.
    The plane, what was left of it, was situated on what looked like sand dunes … where in God’s name were they? The front nose was completely missing, torn off like the top of a tin can displaying the inside of the once magnificent Lear jet. The outsides were black; smoke-stained from the explosion he assumed must’ve taken place on impact. The jagged edges where the nose had ripped off looked like teeth, the wing of the plane reminiscent of a fin, a beached shark come to rest by the water, thin delicate waves gently creeping underneath in a stealth-like bid to drag it into its deep; ugly chunks of metal and plastic debris, incongruous somehow with the flora and fauna that surrounded it, wires and metal exposed to the elements, an alien exploded. He spotted one of the expensive-looking white leather plane seats to his left, discordant on its side where it had been jettisoned from the aircraft and other unidentifiable objects: red plastic – a drinks tray, perhaps; torn fabric that clung to tufts of dry grass on the sand dunes, bright like flags fluttering in the gentle but steady sea breeze.
    Rupert involuntarily shuddered; the sight he was witnessing was as sickening and disturbing as it was alien, the eye unable to fully comprehend it, the brain struggling to process. Where in God’s name were they ? Blinking, bewildered he forcibly pulled Angelika up into a seated position. She would regain full consciousness.
    â€˜Angelika, wake up!’ he commanded in a voice similar to the one he used whenever she overslept. ‘I need you to wake up!’
    He glanced at the boy next to her. The bone of his forearm was sticking clean out of his skin, just below the elbow, the repugnant smell of flesh filling his nostrils as he drew closer to inspect it.
    â€˜The boy’s going to lose his arm.’ He announced the fact without emotion as he removed his shirt and began ripping strips of fabric from it in a bid to make a tourniquet, and stem the bleeding. ‘He needs our help fast … Angelika! Angelika, wake up!’
    Angelika was groggy but awake, slipping and sliding in and out of consciousness, struggling to keep her eyes open, seconds lost as her body fluctuated between the two.
    â€˜I’m here, Ru,’ she whispered. ‘Darling, I’m here.’ She was sitting upright without assistance now, which was enough for Rupert to begin focussing his attention elsewhere.
    Mia Manhattan’s dress had been torn from her body as she lay half naked and exposed on the sand. Her face was bloody and messy but instinctively Rupert knew her injuries were superficial. She was spreadeagled, legs and arms wide in an undignified star shape, her expensive underwear, what remained of it, barely covering what little modesty she had left.
    Rupert crouched over her, his mouth almost touching hers as he listened for breath. He was too scared to touch her initially but soon overcame his apprehension and put his hand on her naked chest. A heartbeat. She was alive, for now at least.
    â€˜Is she...?’Angelika croaked through the foggy haze inside her head.
    â€˜Alive …’ . Secretly he was relieved and they both knew it. He may not have liked the blasted woman but he didn’t want her dead. Not like this.
    A figure approached.
    â€˜Nate …’ Angelika said, her voice cracking like the embers of a bonfire, hoarse and dry.
    He stumbled towards them, a dishevelled human mess, shirt ripped and black with debris and smoke, his smart jeans torn and gaping open at the knee, a diabolical fashion