The evening sea breeze, carrying a salty chill, swept across the crescent-shaped beach, slightly dispersing the scorching heat and the smell of blood from the day.
Having lived in fear all day and endured both physical and mental exhaustion, most of the survivors, after filling their stomachs, collapsed like boneless creatures, lying scattered across the beach, using life jackets or damp clothes as pillows, and fell into a deep sleep.
The sound of the waves became the best lullaby; at least for that moment, they briefly forgot that they were in hell.
However, this Strange beach was destined not to be a bed suitable for a peaceful slumber.
The next day, as the horizon just began to turn a pale fish-belly white and heavy morning mist still lingered over the sea like ghosts, the group woke up one by one, opening their eyes early as if startled by nightmares.
There were no alarm clocks, no aroma of coffee, only the hard, unyielding sand and aching bodies.
The shadow of the plane crash did not fade with the night; instead, it became heavier in the cold, silent morning air, like an inescapable dark cloud hanging over everyone's hearts.
Everyone looked unwell, with dark circles under their eyes, and their gazes filled with confusion and anxiety.
"We have to do something; we cannot just sit here and wait for death."
While eating breakfast, which consisted of leftover breadfruit heated over the embers of the campfire, Barton, with thick bandages wrapped around his leg, broke the silence.
After a night of rest, the tough guy's spirit was noticeably better than yesterday, and although his lips were still pale, his eyes had regained that unique sharpness characteristic of an Agent.
He held a tree branch, drawing a simple diagram of the plane's structure on the sand, and proposed in a deep voice: "To send a distress signal to the outside world, the emergency transmitter on the plane is the only long-distance communication device we can use. This device is usually installed near the cockpit. It has its own independent power supply and is a dual-frequency radio, capable of transmitting both civilian and military FM radio signals. As long as we activate it, the probability of rescue aircraft receiving the signal will increase significantly."
Having said this, he looked around at everyone, his tone serious: "This island is too remote, perhaps so remote that it does not even exist on any country's civilian flight route map. If we just passively sit on the beach waiting for outside search efforts, we might not see a single ship for a month or two. We must take the initiative."
"The transmitter is in the cockpit, but where is the nose of the plane?" someone asked.
"The nose crashed into a valley deep inside the island."
Alice swallowed the last bite of the soft, slightly sour breadfruit and recounted the scene she had witnessed yesterday.
"The plane broke apart in the air, and the nose, relying on inertia, flew further and crashed directly into that mist-shrouded mountain area."
"Then the goal is clear," Barton said, drawing an arrow on the map with the branch. "What we need to do next is go to the valley, find the wreckage of the nose, and get the transmitter from the cockpit."
This proposal was agreed upon by most people.
After all, no one wanted to be a savage here for the rest of their life.
Now that they had a goal, the next step was to form a search team to venture deep into the hinterland.
"Count me in!"
A confident, even somewhat excited voice rang out.
The blond youth Hughes was the first to step forward.
He held tightly onto the recurve bow that had been assembled under Barton's guidance the day before, with a homemade quiver on his back.
To prove his strength and to provide a shot of confidence to this unformed team, he decided to show off his skills.
"Annie, do me a favor," he said to his girlfriend beside him.
The girl named Annie understood immediately, picked up a few pieces of leftover thick breadfruit skin, and threw them forcefully into the air.
"Watch closely!"
Hughes shouted, and in that instant, his whole body seemed to transform into a fully drawn bow.
Nocking an arrow, drawing the bow, aiming, releasing the string.
"Swish! Swish! Swish!"
The movements were fluid and accomplished in one go.
The three arrows, like shooting stars chasing the moon, traced three beautiful parabolas in the morning Sun.
"Thud! Thud! Thud!"
The three pieces of breadfruit skin tumbling in the air were hit precisely and then pinned to a coconut tree trunk a dozen meters away, the ends of the arrows still trembling slightly.
"Good."