"What do we do?" I shrieked at my brother, waves crashing rhythmically at my feet.

The sand beneath us was blood-soaked, and it had taken on that unnatural, tacky texture. Brian was kneeling in the surf. He appeared to not hear me. I looked into my little brother's face. His eyes were blue, tears welled at the corners.

My breathing became frantic. Panic began to set in.

The island lay before us like the arc of a giant tortoise shell, lone haven, from sky to horizon of blue water everywhere. We could no longer see the airplane. Where were Mom and Allen? Mom was a strong swimmer, she used to be a life guard for Christ's sake! Surely we would see her soon, her blonde head bobbing with the pounding surf, but the rough seas would be no match for her strength.

Beneath us lay the pilot, his neck so deccemated by shrattenel that his head was almost completely severed. A torn slice of tomato, lifeless, shapeless. He had saved us both. He was the only adult we saw swim in, and now he was dead.

In the distance we heard the quake of thunder. Yet the skies were clear. Not a single cloud littered the perfect azure backdrop. Brian turned quickly, and I only focused my eyes in time to catch the palm trees bending from the force of a powerful horned neck.