A person had a bigger chance of being bitten by a shark than dying in a plane crash. Marcus Rhodes just hoped there were no sharks around this island.

Traveling by plane wasn't a new thing to the large man. He had been doing it for nearly twenty years as a Marine, and didn't think this trip to the Sapphire Coast would be all that eventful. He remembered taking off and passing on the headphones for the inflight movie, instead choosing to have a drink and talk to Laura. The alcohol on airlines was always overpriced, but there was little that could bother the Marine as he sat with his new bride, exchanging kisses, laughing quietly and staying still as she fell asleep on his shoulder. At a height of forty-thousand feet, the sun spilled in through the windows of the aircraft, and the orange beams bathed Laura's face in a glow that made her look like an angel. He wasn't a soft man, but damn, Marcus loved her.

The next thing he remembered was falling out of the sky, the people around him screaming, the flight attendants attempt to make everyone remain calm as the engines on the wings billows black smoke behind them. They hit the beach hard, so much so that the hull had broken in half which sent debris and people scattering all over the beach. Marcus had been knocked unconscious by the impact, but came to when he felt the salty ocean lapping against an open wound on his forehead. He was still buckled into his seat, the belt holding strong as he lay face down in the sand. It was a wonder he hadn't suffocated. Groaning, shaking fingers released the metal clasp and it took a few moments for Marcus to realize what had happened. All of his training told him not to panic, but he couldn't help frantically looking around for his wife. It was then that he saw the plane, and finally registered that Laura was no longer in the seat next to him. 

“Laura!” Marcus yelled, and then again, “Laura!?” There was nothing, though, no answer, just the sound of the fires that had sprung up around the plane, and the ocean coming in and moving out. Marcus jogged over to the wreckage, feeling various joints and bones protest with every step, and he had to wipe at the bleeding cut on his head as he approached. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw another survivor, a woman and he changed course, going over to her instead of entering a plane that was bound to explode.

She looked dazed and scared, and the makeshift tourniquet around her ankle said that was she hurt, but not down for the count. If he could help her walk, maybe she could help him look for other survivors. “Can you walk?” he asked, kneeling down by her side at the palm tree. He hadn't bothered surveying the jungle behind them, yet, but the thick trees didn't look promising. “There could be others in the plane. You've gotta help me, ma'am,” he said, extending his hand to the brown-haired woman. They could work together on this.

Inside the plane, Maya Gill lay on her back, eyes focused on the ceiling that had formerly been the aisle-way. Her dark eyes darted around, chest heaving as she struggled to breathe, but no one else seemed to be awake, or rather...alive. The woman closed her eyes, head spinning as she attempted to piece together what had happened. The picture wasn't clear, and all Maya could recall was popping a Xanax and washing it down with a vodka-soda shortly after take off. She wasn't good with flying, but she had to get to her vacation somehow and sleeping until Brazil had seemed like a good idea at the time. Obviously, she had been wrong, very wrong about everything and should have stayed back in Los Angeles.

 From her position, Maya did her best to assess the damage to her body. She had been wearing her seatbelt, but it had obviously been torn off upon impact. Wiggling her toes, now free of her five-hundred dollar high heels somehow, the dark-haired woman was relieved to feel that they still moved. She tried her legs legs next, and continued to move upward until she wiggled her fingers. There was pain in her hips, perhaps dislocated from the violent way she had been flung from her seat, and her ribs were tender as well, but Maya didn't think anything was beyond repair. She shifted a little, doing her best to sit up when she saw a man trying to get out of his seat. She watched, seeing him swing his way down and winced when she heard him crash down.

“Are you okay over there?” she asked, her voice far from steady. “Hello?” She didn't know if anyone else was alive, but black smoke was drifting into the cabin and Maya was worried about how much time they had left before they were dead.

From the front of the plane, Matt Nixon heard voices. They were distressed and panicked, apprehensive, but they were there. He was left strapped into his seat, hanging upside down with all of the blood in his body pooling in his head. The pain was intense, and his adrenaline was pumping, but he didn't think there was anything urgently wrong with him. It was strange to think that Matt's lifelong lucky streak had extended to this, a disaster, a tragedy, but the photographer was just thankful to be alive. He didn't care where they had landed, he didn't care about anything as long as he hadn't lost his life. It was selfish, and survivor's guilt was sure to hit him eventually, but it would be long after he was out of this plane, when he was back home and safe. 

“Is someone there?” he asked, yelling. “I'm alive.” 

Matt had made the choice to sit in the back of first class, right before that curtain separated him from coach. He liked it best there, always glad to have no one kicking the back of his seat and the privacy was nice for a nap. Although now he was regretting it and Matt felt incredibly cut off from anyone else who might have survived. He looked to his left, to the woman who had been sitting next to him and saw that she was unresponsive—more than likely because half of her face had been torn off. Matt thought he was going to be sick, and he felt his breathing quicken, fingers shaking as he called out again, “please help me! I'm up here!” 

The clasp on his seat belt was stuck and Matt frantically yanked at the thick, nylon fabric and metal, trying to pull it away from his body. It was no use, though, and bitterly, Matt cursed the TSA in his head. If people were still allowed to bring sharp objects onto planes, maybe he could have gotten out of his seat and left the plane before the thing exploded. Listening still, Matt thought he heard voices coming toward the plane, he couldn't make it out, but the deep voice was coming closer and he thought he heard a second.

“Hey!” he yelled again, voice hoarse and raw, “we're alive! We're in here, help us!” He didn't know who else was there, unable to see behind him, but speaking for them seemed like a good enough idea. Just because he was a little selfish didn't mean he wanted innocent people to die.