Julian was the last to reach the beach, coughing up the nasty salt water from his lungs and shooting a glare at Charlie, who lay sprawled on the sand, gasping at the sky.
"Idiot, ha… haa," Julian snapped, tossing Charlie's abandoned parachute onto his chest. "Why'd you leave this? Do you know how important it's going to be later?!"
"Sorry…" Charlie croaked, not moving. His arm shakily pointed toward the water, where a massive fin cut through the surface like a knife.
"Did you not see what was chasing us? That was no shark, man! How the hell are we supposed to get off this island with that thing out there!"
"I don't know yet," Julian barked. "But first, we focus on what we can control — and that's salvaging whatever we can."
He jabbed a finger toward the mess of parachute cords tangled in the sand.
"Start cutting. We'll need the fabric and the lines."
Julian peeled off his lifejacket and trudged back to the water's edge, scooping up handfuls of water to wash the grime from his face.
The salt stung, but it cleared his mind.
He caught his reflection in a shallow pool: light brown eyes bloodshot but determined, a rugged face hardened by exhaustion. His dark hair, usually neat, was a messy halo around his strong jawline and sharp cheekbones.
He splashed more water through it, forcing it into place with shaky fingers.
A sudden sting shot up his arm.
He yanked up his sleeve and found a gash — already clotting, but angry and raw from the saltwater.
Julian gritted his teeth and wiped it clean with more water.
One more thing to deal with.
Julian wiped the salt from his face and forced himself back onto his feet. He needed to check on the others — the crash was over, but the real test for survival was just beginning.
He spotted one of the pilots surveying the shoreline with a cautious eye.
"Boy," the man called out, motioning Julian over. "Forget the plane. With that monster swimming around, we won't be getting anything from the wreck anytime soon."
The pilot's tone was firm but calm — practiced, professional.
"We need to set up camp first. Make it big and bright. If a rescue team comes by air or sea, they'll need to see us. Use the parachutes — their colors'll help them spot us."
He paused, then extended a hand.
"Name's Michael, by the way."
Michael looked around fifty, the type of man shaped by years of hard living. His stern gaze spoke of experience, while the easy way he held himself showed he wasn't someone who cracked under pressure.
Dark brown hair streaked with white at the temples framed a broad, rugged face. His muscular frame hadn't softened with age — he looked every bit the veteran Julian guessed he was.
Before Julian could answer, the second pilot ambled over, wiping sand off his hands.
"Too bad there weren't any ladies on board," the man said with a half-smirk. "Gonna be a hell of a boring stay. Still... could be worse."
He pulled a small, wickedly sharp knife from his pocket and began casually twirling it between his fingers.
"Name's George," he said. "But just call me Geo — only my grandma called me George."
Compared to Michael, Geo had a leaner, wirier build, with sharp features and a glint of mischief in his eye that hinted he didn't take many things seriously.
"I'll handle cooking, unless one of you geniuses knows how to whip up something edible."
He jerked his chin toward Charlie, who was still half-sprawled in the sand, hacking at the parachute strings with a stick.
Julian managed a tired smile.
At least they had a team.
For now.
Geo looked a bit wild compared to the stern, disciplined Michael.
His shoulder-length hair flowed with the breeze, framing a face that, despite a lean build, carried an undeniable handsomeness.
Everything about him — from the expressive movements to the easy lilt of his Italian-accented speech — radiated a carefree spirit.
Yet underneath the bravado, Julian caught something else: a student-in-training vibe, like a man still refining himself under someone else's watchful eye.
"Well, if one of you is the cook and the other's the builder," Julian said, brushing sand off his hands, "I guess I'll be the hunter. I'll look for coconuts first, maybe see if I can fashion a fishing rod... or a javelin."
He jerked a thumb toward Charlie, who was staring blankly out at the sea.
"Meanwhile, find something to keep the useless one busy."
Charlie, like Julian, was nineteen, but that was where the similarities ended.
The kid stood at an enormous six-foot-eight, easily weighing over two hundred pounds — a walking mountain.
But despite the muscle, Charlie had a childishness about him, an innocence that made him seem more vulnerable than anyone else.
If they didn't find food soon, Julian had a sinking feeling he'd be the first to fall.
The flaming red hair made Charlie easy to spot, and although he had a decent face, the whiny edge to his voice was already grating on Julian's nerves.
Michael let out a low chuckle.
"I'm sure we'll find something for him to do. That size'll come in handy for hauling wood at least."
He knelt, using a stick to sketch a rough outline in the sand.
"From what I've seen, the island's about three kilometers across. There's a small mount in the center — might be a hill or a small mountain — but I didn't spot any man-made structures."
Geo crouched nearby, tilting his head as he studied the makeshift map.
"No trails either," he added. "No smoke, no boats. Nothing."
Julian frowned.
An untouched island? In the middle of a known ocean route?
Something about it didn't sit right.
He dusted off his hands and stood.
"Either we're lucky... or we're somewhere we're not supposed to be."
"I only saw trees," Geo said, sounding a bit deflated. His energy dulled as he kicked idly at the sand.
"Nothing special — just another tiny island the rich would buy to turn into a resort.
Maybe we got lucky... but if that were the case, there'd be a harbor or at least a landing strip."
Julian nodded, glancing inland.
"Well, I'll stick close to the coast. Look for running water, maybe some fruit if we're lucky. I'll be back in about an hour."
He held up his wrist to show the others — his watch, battered but functional, read twelve noon sharp.
"Alright," Michael said, folding his arms. "We'll stay here and prep camp until you're back. No one is to wander off too far alone."
Julian took a moment to scan the beach for anything useful.
He needed something — a sharp stick, a strong rock — anything to serve as a weapon in case trouble found him before he found food.
His gaze drifted to the parachutes, fluttering in the breeze like wounded birds.
He could salvage some of the cords, maybe rig a climbing hook or a fishing spear.
Not perfect, but better than nothing.
As he knelt to tear a few lengths free, flashes of old memories rose unbidden — long-forgotten survival classes his parents had forced him into back in middle school.
Back then, he'd hated every second of it.
Now, he was quietly grateful.
Maybe he'd survive this day after all.