“Like fuck you are!”
My next argument is cut off by a loud creaking sound. I watch with wide eyes as the left wall of the cabin we’ve spent the past three months building — log by log, lash by lash — is shorn cleanly from the rest of the structure. Beck hurls himself on top of me, flattening us against the earth as the remaining walls cave in all around us. It happens so fast, there’s not even time to scream.
Someone up there must be looking out for us, because we’re untouched when the sand clouds lift. Raising his head, Beck glares down into my face. “You can come willingly or I’ll carry you. But we aren’t staying here another second.”
I stare into his eyes, then around at the remnants of our home, reduced to rubble. Everything we’ve worked so hard to piece together… gone in a single gust. My eyes sting from more than the whipping winds as I give a tremulous nod.
“Let’s go.”
As we scramble to our feet, Beck grabs his duffle and I sling my backpack over one shoulder. Lacing our hands together, we start running as fast as we can. I throw a glance back at the beach and see the typhoon is even closer now, roiling black and purple as it prepares to make landfall. As I watch, a tornado funnel descends from the clouds to form a waterspout. Two more appear in the seconds after.
Fuck.
We increase our pace as we sprint down the beach, the wind at our back spurring us onward. My backpack bangs between my shoulder blades with each stride. We pass the tidal pools, completely submerged by frothing surf. Beck’s fishing traps are scattered in pieces on the beach, smashed to bits by the ocean’s punishing assault. When a massive swell crashes a bit too close for comfort, we dart beneath the tree cover.
Calling it cover might be a stretch, at the moment. Palms are stripped bare as strong blasts of wind rip away branches. Low-lying bushes are pulled up by their roots and sucked into the sky. More coconuts fly through the air, smashing into the sand like deadly mortar shells, a tropical version of D-Day at Normandy.
We keep our heads down as we race west, in the direction of the caves. My feet slice to shreds against the rough coral rocks littering the ground. Wincing with pain, I wish I’d had the forethought to pull on Ian’s shoes before we left camp. There’s nothing to be done about it now. No time to stop, no possibility of a break.
Much as I initially wanted to deny it… Beck was right. This storm will kill us, if we don’t reach shelter soon.
By the time we burst from the trees by the western cliffs, I’m breathless and bleeding. There are scratches all over my arms and legs from racing through the thicket. Each step across the rocks leaves a bloody footprint as I limp toward the dark mouth of the cave. We stagger inside without preamble, leaning on the rock walls for guidance in the pitch black. There’s no light, nothing to see by. Every surface drips with moisture.
“Beck?” I whisper, fear coursing through me.
“I’m here.”
I feel his hand lace with mine, squeezing to offer reassurance. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the dark. I can make out only the most basic of shapes — Beck’s silhouette, the closest wall, my own hand five inches in front of my face. The rest of the world is a mere shadow.
Thunder rattles the thick stone around us a scant instant after a flash of lightning splits the sky. The wind whistles louder than a banshee scream. I hear an unfamiliar rumbling sound and for an instant, I fear the rocks are caving in around us. I quickly realize it’s merely the sound of heavy rainfall, pummeling the roof above in an incessant onslaught.
The storm is here.
Sinking to the frigid stone ground, we hold each other in the dark as the wind howls ever louder, feeling desperately fragile in the face of mother nature’s wrath.
“I love you,” I whisper, the first time I’ve ever said the words aloud.
“I know,” he returns, kissing me blindly.
Chapter Seventeen
S Y M P H O N Y
After three hours, the storm shows no signs of letting up. Huddled together for warmth, we shiver in the shadowy cave, frozen to the bone as the minutes tick by without any source of light or heat. The damp stone walls act as an icebox. I blow on my fingertips, flexing them to keep the blood circulating.
A few more hours of this, and hypothermia will set in.
“It’ll pass soon,” Beck assures me periodically. I can’t help noticing he sounds a shade less confident every time he says it.
Robbed of my sight, I explore the contents of my backpack by touch. The fringed, flat-edges of the coloring book pages. The waxy tips of the crayons. The saw-toothed metal of my toiletry bag’s zipper. The toothpick-thin wood of our two remaining waterproof matches.
Two.
Not nearly enough to keep the cave awash in light for hours on end. The paper coloring book would do well enough for starting a fire, but without driftwood kindling or dry leaves to keep it burning… we’d be back at square one within a matter of minutes. Marooned in the dark once more.
“Unless…” I murmur under my breath.
“What?” Beck asks.
“I think I have an idea.”
I remove the contents of my backpack one by one. My numb fingers tingle as I grip the crayon box. Pulling a color out at random, I pass it to Beck.
“Hold this for a moment.”
His voice is wry. “Violet, as much as I’d love to color with you, this doesn’t seem like an opportune moment to explore our creativity—”
“Do shut up.”
He laughs in the dark.
Gripping one of the matchsticks between my fingers, I make sure I’ve got a steady hold on the side of the box before I strike. There’s a flash as the friction causes the tip to catch. I squint against the sudden brightness as the smell of sulphur drifts up into my nostrils. Before the match can fizzle out, I hold it to the tip of the crayon in Beck’s hand. It takes a moment to light, but eventually the waxy paper wrapping flares with heat and begins to burn like a taper candle.
Beck shoots me an amused look as I gently take the flaming magenta stick from his grip. Tilting it at an angle, I let a few drops of melted wax fall to the stone floor, then press the flat end of the crayon into the pink puddle. After a few seconds, the wax dries and I pull my hand away, pleased when our makeshift flame remains upright.
“Did you know?” I ask, grinning broadly. “Crayons make perfect emergency candles.”
He grins back at me. For the first time in hours, I can clearly make out his chiseled features in the flickering light. The view lifts my spirits immediately.
“Each one burns for about thirty minutes, if I remember correctly. And considering I invested in the jumbo pack…” I look down at the container. There are at least a hundred crayons of all shades stacked in neat rows. “We should be good for a while.”