The night's ocean breeze carried a salty, damp chill. It swept across the crescent beach, slightly dispersing the day's scorching heat and the lingering metallic scent of blood.
The survivors had spent the entire day terrified, their bodies and minds pushed beyond exhaustion. After finally filling their stomachs, most of them collapsed as if their bones had been removed. They lay haphazardly across the sand, using life jackets or damp clothes as makeshift pillows, and fell into a deep sleep.
The rhythmic sound of the waves became the perfect lullaby. At least for that brief moment, it allowed them to temporarily forget they were trapped in hell.
However, this alien beach was destined never to be a comfortable bed.
The next day, as the first hint of pale dawn breached the horizon and heavy morning mist still drifted over the sea like ghosts, the survivors opened their eyes one by one. It was as if they had all been jolted awake by a shared nightmare.
There were no alarm clocks and no aroma of fresh coffee. There was only the rock-hard sand and the deep, agonizing ache settling into every muscle.
The shadow of the plane crash had not faded with the night. Instead, it felt even heavier in the cold, desolate morning air, hanging over everyone's hearts like an unshakable dark cloud.
Everyone looked terrible. They sported dark circles under their eyes, their gazes clouded with confusion and anxiety.
"We have to do something. We can't just sit here waiting to die."
As they ate the leftover breadfruit warmed by the embers of last night's fire, Barton—his leg heavily wrapped in bandages—broke the silence.
After a night's rest, the tough man's spirit was noticeably better. Though his lips remained pale, his eyes had regained that sharp, penetrating focus unique to elite agents.
He held a twig, sketching a rudimentary diagram of the airplane's structure in the sand. He spoke in a low, serious tone.
"If we want to send a distress signal to the outside world, the aircraft's Emergency Locator Transmitter—the ELT—is the only long-range communication device we can use. This beacon is typically installed near the aft or the cockpit. It operates on an independent power supply and transmits distress signals across both civilian and military radio frequencies, specifically 121.5, 243.0, and 406 MHz. If we can activate it, the chances of a search-and-rescue plane picking up our signal will skyrocket."
He paused, sweeping a stern gaze over the gathered survivors.
"This island is incredibly remote. It might be so isolated that it doesn't even exist on any country's commercial flight maps. If we just passively sit on this beach waiting for an external search party, we could be waiting months without ever seeing a single ship. We need to take the initiative."
"The transmitter is in the cockpit, but where is the nose of the plane?" someone asked.
"It crashed into a valley deep inside the island."
Alice swallowed her final bite of the soft, slightly tart breadfruit and recounted what she had witnessed the previous day.
"The plane broke apart mid-air. The nose section carried much more momentum and flew much further inland, crashing straight into that mist-shrouded mountain range."
"Then our objective is clear." Barton used his twig to draw an arrow on the sand map. "Our next move is to trek into that valley, find the wreckage of the nose, and recover the ELT from the cockpit."
The proposal received almost unanimous agreement. After all, nobody wanted to live out the rest of their lives as savages.
With a clear objective set, the next step was forming an expedition team to venture deep into the island's interior.
"Count me in!"
A voice brimming with confidence—and perhaps a bit too much adrenaline—rang out.
The blond youth, Hughes, was the first to step forward. He tightly gripped the recurve bow he had assembled under Barton's guidance the day before. A makeshift quiver was slung across his back.
To prove his worth, and perhaps to inject a shot of much-needed morale into this newly formed team, he decided to show off.
"Annie, give me a hand," he said to his girlfriend.
The girl named Annie understood immediately. She picked up several thick rinds of leftover breadfruit and hurled them high into the air.
"Watch this!"
Hughes let out a sharp shout. In that split second, his entire posture tightened like a fully drawn bow.
Nock. Draw. Aim. Release.
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
His movements were flawlessly smooth, flowing together in a single breath. Three deadly arrows shot forth like chasing meteors, carving three beautiful arcs through the morning sunlight.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
The three tumbling breadfruit rinds were struck mid-air with pinpoint precision. The arrows pinned them firmly to the trunk of a palm tree over a dozen meters away, the carbon-fiber fletchings still vibrating rapidly.
"Incredible."
"That was amazing."
"He's practically the Green Arrow."
A passionate wave of cheers and applause erupted from the crowd.
On an island filled with unknown dangers, sheer combat power was the ultimate form of security. Hughes's display of god-tier archery undoubtedly provided everyone with a massive sense of safety.
Hughes basked in their adoration. He tossed his blond hair, a smirk of 'lonely perfection' resting on his lips, his eyes practically burning with eagerness.
In truth, everyone could tell that rather than viewing this as a desperate search for a rescue beacon, he was treating this expedition more like an African safari.
He was practically one step away from tilting his head back and roaring, "My blade has long thirsted for blood!"