NudieUnicorn
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Aug 25, 2020
Island Time
08:31 - 2 October, 1938Somewhere in the South Pacific
space It was never a good idea to fly a plane drunk in a storm. But for when she had to, at least Stella now knew she could.
space Before opening her eyes, Stella pieced together the subtle clues to deduce that, among other things, she was, in fact, not dead. There was also the fact that, when she slept aboard her sea-plane, the Luckie Duckie, she slept in a hammock in the back of the cabin -- the gentle swaying of the water complimenting the gentle swaying of the hammock -- and she felt no swaying right now. This told her two things: firstly, the plane was on solid ground; secondly, she was actually not in her hammock, but was lying on the floor. Further, she could hear the waves, quite loudly, but felt no swaying… was she even on her sea-plane? Maybe she was in a bungalow on the beach? If so, whose?
She stretched out a stiff leg and kicked a bottle with her tingling big toe. The bottle went rolling across the floor, which sounded like the uncarpeted deck of her plane. The bottle sounded like an empty wine or rum bottle, which further reinforced the idea that it was her plane. The bottle of Demerara…?
space Another empty bottle was sitting under her left arm on the floor – she remembered the excellent bottle of rum she had opened to console herself about the delay in departure because of the storm. She had wandered out to the dock to watch the storm rolling in... and... She pushed herself up, eyes open, gasping. She remembered.
space Skipping, leaping, prancing across the top of the waves, the ethereal blue ghost of a deer seemed to call to her from the surf. Standing on the edge of the docks, looking out at the churning black sky and roiling black sea, occasionally lit by stabs of blinding light, Stella could only look on in wonder. Was this real? Was she asleep? What was in this rum? The ghost deer dashed toward the storm. In a moment of pure impulse she bolted down the jetty to her plane and threaded herself through the hatch and the partition into the cockpit. She didn't even remember closing the door. She had spilled rum on herself - fortunately she wasn't wearing any clothes to stain.
space Bottle in one hand, she started the plane, remembered she had to release the rope, got out of the plane, released the moorings, got back into the plane (she remembered closing the door this time because that stupid rug from Singapore was in the way and she threw it overboard) and followed the receding figure of the magic deer out to sea. It wasn't the most reckless thing she had ever done while drunk...
space Head pounding, skull grinding against her spine, temples throbbing and her brain and stomach threatening to swap places, she caught herself against the bulkhead and vomited.
space After a few minutes she crawled to the cockpit and found a canteen. Hydrated, she stepped out into the warming tropical air. The sand, in the shadow of her plane, was cool beneath her feet, between between her toes, wet and clay-like. She stepped out into the brilliant tropical sun, the light bathing her nude, aching body. A breeze caught at her short, dark hair and tickled the sides of her torso, her hips, her thighs... The soothing tonic of sunlight was a balm to the abused swirling pit of nausea that was her stomach. Her breast smarted from the first kiss of the sun. Her eyes drank in light in excess, giving her blurred after-images in the blue white expanse of sky. Her legs struggled to navigate her body down to the surf.
space The sea was cold, frigid even, but it washed the drying bile off her leg and sent blessed relief through her as she fell to her knees in the lapping push and pull of the water. She was on a sandbar, one of the dozens of tiny atolls that peppered Oceania which disappeared entirely at high tide. Still, though, she vomited again in the water, lurching forward and just barely being able to hold her head out of the waves with her arms at full extension.
space When she was done, she spit the foul taste of sick out of her mouth and cursed in three languages. Then she tried to look on the bright side. "There you go," she rasped. "You stupid fishies. You're welcome." She coughed and gargled sea water after a moment when she was sure Mother Ocean had cleared away her detritus. "Ugh… that was probably a bad idea…" She crab-walked on her hands and feet, face turned skyward, up the sandbar until she was mostly out of the water, and collapsed, lying on her back, looking at the sky.
space There were no birds, no insects, only water lapping at the sand and rocks; air blowing past her ears. The waves caressed her feet and calves… she turned her head to the side, away from her plane…
space She blinked.
space Stella sat up on her elbow, brushed her wet hair out of her face and rubbed her sore eyes. She blinked again. There was a body lying a few yards away on the sand.
space She stood up and walked toward it. A splayed, female form, skin pale, wearing a torn slip drenched to transparency. The figure's head was a mess of light brown hair, with a bit of kelp and other flotsam mixed in it. She couldn't see any facial features beneath the tangled mane, and hastened to look for them, having seen what the sea did to corpses. She took another step toward the body and knelt beside it. With one hand she moved the heavy, wet hair aside and startled! The mouth was moving, muscles working the jaw and a soft, pitiful groaning emitting from the lips. She felt the neck as she had intended to (sort of superfluous now that there were signs of life, but she did it anyway – yep, there was a pulse).
She struggled to roll the body over, not realizing her knee was pinning part of the slip to the ground, and she tore the already tattered garment. Oh well. She planted one foot in the wet sand and slid her arms under the woman's body, and, with her weight pressing on her anchored foot and a hearty grunt, scooped the woman up in her arms. She nearly fell straight over again but – already being deeply uncomfortable from her hangover, was wall willing to bear the added strain, which made little difference on balance – held herself upright.
space Stella staggered toward the plane, whose hatch was still open, and laid the woman at the threshold. Gripping the top of the hatch, Stella stepped over the prone woman and into the plane. Hands under the woman's shoulders, she pulled her guest into the interior and sat her upright against the couch at the port side of the cabin.
space "Oh shit…" she remarked to herself. Hadn't someone once told her not to move the body of an injured person? Why was that again? "Oh well…" she muttered. It was too late now.
space Doubling down on her decision, she laid out a warm, dry blanket on the couch, pulled the rest of the soggy scraps of the slip off the woman and muscled her onto the blanket on the couch. From there, she towelled her off as best she could (and herself as well), and wrapped the stranger in the blanket.
space "Okay…" she spread her hands apart in thought… now what?
space In answer to her own question, "now what" entailed fishing out a hip-flask from a drawer by the couch for some hair-of-the-dog; a candy bar from the cockpit for breakfast; working on cleaning up the vomit at the back of the cabin and throwing the subsequent dirty rags out the hatch onto the sandbar. She then focused on drying her hair with another towel and pacing the cabin, trying to think of what to do next…
space Where had she last put her toothbrush…?