Chapter 1- JACK

It took me about half an hour to realise that I was still alive.

Another hour for me to be able to stand, propped up against a vine clad tree.

I'm still not 100% sure that I'm not dead.

But, if this jungle place is heaven, then take me to hell lord, because the mosquitos are really starting to piss me off.

I've been walking aimlessly along the forest floor, searching for a way out of the seemingly unending jungle. Anxiety speaks up in my mind from time to time, a dulled voice screaming that I am alone, I am stranded, I am dead, I should be dead, I will die and… well I reckon you've got the gist of it by now. I tell the voice to fuck off. It does. For now. Soon it won't, soon the shock will have worn off and I'll be left stranded on an island, victim to my uncontrollable anxiety. Come to think of it, ignoring the island part, that isn't far off from my normal life.

"I'm Jack and I'm brave." I murmur to myself as I amble. It's childish, yes, but I'm also scared like shit. Scared of what Roger will do if he's still alive. He is still alive. I can feel it, a creeping dread in my bones that is both uncomfortable and familiar. I can't imagine a plane crash killing someone like Roger. Someone forged of nothing but darkness and malice. Besides if I survived, the cotton wool wrapped brat that I am, others will have, Roger will have. Submerged in thought, I walk straight into the next tree.

It hurts.

"I'm Jack and I'm a fucking idiot." I repeat glumly, stumbling into the next clearing.

My legs give out from under me, crumpling and folding with no warning. Lying down in the glade I begin to examine my injuries. Earlier, when I first landed, I was just about conscious enough to register that, apart from the burns that marred my left hand, I wasn't about to become an amputee. Still, propped up by my elbows on the spongy grass, I perform a quick limb count, before getting up to do a shit and gather some more exotic looking fruit (risky I know, but I'm a growing boy on the verge of exhaustion, therefore I must eat). I have to shit again after that- turns out exotic fruits are an enemy of my boarding school bred digestive system. Truth to be told, I have probably shat out more fruit than I have consumed, leaving me in a state of acute and incurable hunger. My anxiety pipes up, informing me that I could do to lose the weight. It's not wrong. While I am far from being fat, my body is soft in places a boy's should not be, caused by a persistent habit of binge eating my self-hatred away, and a general loathing of physical education. True to my ways, I jam a few slimy berries down my throat while contemplating the afore-mentioned self-hatred. This day, really, couldn't possibly get any worse. You'd think.

But then, of course, today goes and gets worse. Fucking bastard.

Roger (told you he was alive!) leaps out from the tree behind me, fruit smeared across his mouth like war paint. He makes a low gargling sound in his throat, close to a laugh but considerably more sinister, before lunging forwards, pinning me against another trunk with just one hand.

I may or may not make a very high pitched squeaking sound.

Roger glares at me.

"I hoped you'd be dead. Come on." He snarls before dropping me. I collapse to the ground in an undignified heap, before following my only enemy into the jungle.

"Are there any others?"

"Shut up."

"Yeah but… there… must be." I pant as I sprint to keep up with his jog. He greets me with a mocking stare, ashamed at my lack of fitness. Fucking GCSE PE twat.

"Could we walk?" I grind out.

"No. We've been looking for you."

This is followed by an infinitely long pause in which I attempt to gather the breath required to speak.

"Where are… we… going?"

No reply.

"Are there any… others?"

Roger runs faster, which is plain showing off at this stage.

"Fruit made me shit. What… about… you?"

Is it possible for him to run even bloody faster?

Eventually, I am forced to pipe down, as my head starts to pound with each footstep, black spots dancing in front of my eyes as I drift in and out of reality, the pain in my chest (heart attack?) ebbing and spiking as I do so.

After what seems like hours of dying- sorry running- we make it to a long strip of beach. In the sky the sun radiates stifling heat, painting mirages over the horizon so that it is impossible to see from one end of the beach to the other. The sea gnaws hungrily at the sand but the waves crash to the shore gently, almost as though they don't want to harm the teenagers splashing in the shallows. MY CHOIR! The weight of terror and anxiety caused by Roger's prescence eases, and is replaced with the familiar feeling of authority and responsibility; Roger is no longer in charge here.

Upon seeing me the members instantly snap to attention (awww I trained them so well).

They then attempt to make an orderly formation, apart from Roger, who sticks out like a sulking 17 year old who is beginning to suffer from withdrawal symptoms, most likely because he is a sulking 17 year old who is beginning to suffer from withdrawal symptoms, but I'm not one to judge.

There are several things that I shall make known before continuing:

1- To me, my choir is all I have. It is my only acclaim to any form of social status and I basically have devoted my whole life to it.

2- That does not mean I am popular.

3- My father is the headmaster of my school (imagine a mildly cheaper and even more backwards Eton and you've got it) and a stubborn, old-fashioned prick.

4- Me and my father don't get along.

5- I play piano. Kind of badly.

6- I overthink things. A lot.

7- I hate PE.

8- Don't ask me to dance. Ever.

9- I could, in my youthful chorister days, sing C sharp, which is quite the flex in the music world, I assure you.

Spurred on by relief and confidence, I reassume my power: "Get in line everyone. Please? Good. No. No. Cambourne do I need to tell you twice? Perfect. No, wait. Roger get in your position. Roger! You're a bloody baritone, so stop standing out like you're the lead soloist."

(I am the lead soloist. Always.)

"Fucking hell, Jack." Roger exclaims, winking at me. He falls in line, but I can feel his smirk following me. I stride confidently across the sands for a few paces, and abruptly double over, forced to stop and catch my breath. That bloody running!

"It appears we are on an island," I begin dramatically, "We may be the only people alive here. We may be the only people alive anywhere. We may not even be alive, this could be heaven, or Hell- Roger is here too- and we may be dead. But we are together. And that's a good sign."

I wheeze in a breath.

"First everyone should get some fruit. After that, trust me, you will all need to shit. And then, then we will discuss what happens next. You may-"

The floor shudders under the force of a strident blare. It sounds again- like a siren- but worse. Much worse; it's more penetrating, creeping in your ear and bouncing off of your brain constantly, leaving your ears ringing and your thoughts scattered. I clamp my hands over my ears, all dignity lost, as the noise crumples me. Too loud. Too loud- but-

It has to mean other people.

It has to mean safety and comfort.

It has to mean rescue.

The noise pauses and I gather myself and then my choir who are still wincing and beginning to mutter amongst themselves waiting for my response. They need me, I think…?

"We go to the sound." I muster, "An adult is here and we must find them and they will help us." I ignore the murmurs of doubt; such a sound must be commanded by someone with power and authority. "We will go there, and then we will go home."

Sand is painful. Very painful. It scalds even the most calloused part of my feet, setting my skin aflame, boiling my blood with agony. Shoes lie behind us in a disjointed trail, useless for walking on this, but missed for their protection. Mine were the first to go. I regret that.

In the heat, prompted by Roger, several choir members have chosen to walk half-naked their chests bared to the lethal sun.

I discarded my blazer, but my sweat soaked shirt remains in place. I am too insecure to remove it and also uncivilised- it's my last link to home. Uncivilised and yet, not completely unwelcome, never unwelcomed in this heat. The formation has disintegrated over time, and I for one don't have the energy to reinforce it.

Just keep walking. It hurts. Just keep walking. Ouch. One foot. The other foot. One foot. The other foot. Just keep walking.

The sun burns down on us like an angry eye, its rays fixing on us out of contempt, like lasers from a toddler's magnifying glass frying ants.

Just keep walking.

I am aware that at some point I must have chosen to remove my tie. My shirt grates limply against my neck. It's going to look like a bloody hickey by the time we get there.

There.

Where?

I cannot ignore the fact we are heading towards a sound that is lessening in frequency.

We have to get there. It doesn't matter where it is.

Just keep walking. Ignore them. Ignore your thoughts. Just keep walking.

"People!" Someone screeches, lifting my eyes from my feet.

"Lots of them!" I don't recognise the voices, and upon turning to my choir it is clear that they don't either. The voices are talking about us! The voices come from the sound!

Relief threatens to collapse me, but I summon up every ounce of my courage and power, barking the order "Choir, follow me!"

Like one seamless being, we plunge past the trees into the cove of anxious voices ahead.