"Welcome to the jungle, it gets worse here every day.
You learn to live like an animal, in the jungle where we play."
Guns 'N' Roses

Chapter One

Where am I? Is her first thought, lying on her back on uncomfortable ground, staring up at the sunlight filtering in through the leaves of tropical plants above her. Oh. The memories of roughly two weeks (it's hard to tell, and she only knows a real estimate by the lunar phases) come back to her; she sits up immediately, brushing off the ants that had begun to climb over her, and gathers her things. The fire she had set up is not even smoldering down—it had probably died quite a while ago, and it hadn't been big to start with.

The hunger is the first thing to hit, but it always is. Heather has, however, supported herself well enough. The time she had spent in Africa had not been any walk in the park, and she knew a thing or two about what things could be eaten, and how to get to them. She had even managed to catch herself a couple of fish at one point with the rods she had found… well, found was a loose term. In all actuality, she had gone digging through the luggage compartments of what was left of the plane after it crashed, and had stolen them—but what did it matter? The person she took them from was dead anyway.

However, there had been those tracks, which raised their own questions.

Heather had awoken after the crash, still strapped into her seat. The sight had been gruesome—the man next to her was dead, and there were oxygen masks hanging down like eerie tentacles, grasping at the faces of corpses, not unlike those Alien movies were the scorpion things would plant an egg inside someone's chest. Then again, she had always had an over-active imagination, part of which landed her in this situation in the first place. After wriggling herself free (she had to cut away a portion of the seat belt using the razor from a bathroom bag that had exploded nearby), she did a quick survey of the plane—it was the front portion, and there was no middle or back to be seen. There were no pulses, and she had checked every single body… even the ones that were obviously dead. She had felt obligated to.

The cockpit had been a different story… there was blood coating the broken windows, not to mention what looked like a long red tongue of it still sticky on the isle, running downwards when she woke up. How she managed to live while everyone around her was dead was a question she saved for later. Without a moment's hesitation, directly after checking the cockpit and seeing the mess there, Heather had gone through most of the luggage—whatever wasn't covered in blood or brains (and a good deal of it was). She managed to recover a large, decently suited backpacked, and piled it full of what she thought may eventually come in handy—she'd dump in prescription medications, a couple of watches, and was nearly overjoyed to find a Swiss Army Knife—there was also the odd paperback novel here and there which she kept without really thinking. The rest of the space in the bag was saved for clothes (her own she could not find, and she simply took what looked like it would fit her, and threw it in), the fishing poles (two of them) she carried by hand.

The morality of this had occurred to her, but the woman was a born survivor; for that matter, if those people were dead, they wouldn't be missing any of it. Perhaps she was a bit manipulative, lacked a proper respect, but that was a concern for another day. She tried out several of the cell-phones she had pilfered, but none received reception. Heather had amused herself momentarily with the grim thought of stringing up all of the cell-phone commercial actors up by their intestines, but this was stopped short when she saw the tracks—clear boot outlines in the mud by the plane.

They were all jumbled, as if someone had been trying to run, and had fallen—then disappeared all together, somehow only carefully preserved in that one spot. It had been the most heartening sight, and the only thing that kept Heather from losing all hope (she did not ever seriously consider suicide: she was—as she continually reminded herself—a survivor, and was accustomed to periods of solitude from her previous occupation).

She stands, hands on her hips, knowing that she'll have a better chance of finding someone if she walks along the beaches, or close to them—it'll be instinct to stay in possible sight of any ships or planes. For the past week, give or take a few days, she's only been able to travel a short distance—when trying to climb one tree for the fruit in it, she had slipped on some damp moss growing on one of the branches, and unceremoniously fallen. Luckily, she did not break her ankle, and had only twisted it, knew better to walk on it whenever it was swollen and maybe worsen it.

Of course, there was always the sneaking fear that some rescue plane or boat would come, and she would be left, stranded.

Now, however, for the past two days, she has been walking—she doesn't think she's going in a circle, but it's hard to tell, because the compass she filched seems to be off on her account. I have to be going long-ways across this fucking island or something, she thinks. After all, it can't be that big. She must have gotten mixed up somewhere. As she walks, she thinks about what led her here, alone on a tropical island.

It had first started when she was in college: she took a semester abroad with the Peace Corps, and worked in Africa (ever-so cliché, she had been one of those young students feeding children with AIDS and such). Of course, that had only been the start of it. Heather had never been one to like being 'rooted', not even as a child—and when the opportunity came to travel further, down to the surrounding villages, she took it without hesitation. There had been something unspeakably liberating about being in a small group (which only got smaller as time went on and people went home, went back to their universities, filled to the brink with Africa and sick of it), not to mention the wilderness was endlessly appealing to her. She liked the feeling of relying on herself, liked the namelessness of shifting in and out of villages.

Somewhere during this time her own experience with photography began, and she kept a well documented set of journals—averaging about 2 entries a day, with the addition of pictures whenever she had them developed (after a while she invested in a Polariod). A part of her always knew that she was looking for something, just her conscious mind didn't know what—only went on with the assurance that once she found it, she'd know.

Usually natives were not too happy to have her around, but she did her best to appease them. Eventually she became a familiar face, and often brought quantities of relatively cheap staple foods with her, and would share with the tribe (and one of the best ways to bond anywhere is by a show of food—Heather knew that much). It got to the point where in a few tribes she would be invited to watch the rituals, even dance in them once or twice. There was always a feeling there, like an unseen current running underneath a calm surface: it was an itch she couldn't scratch, and she needed more of it.

Then, she finally found what she was looking for: it was a staggeringly hot day, and was only made worse by the fire roaring nearby in the hut she was crouched in. She did not have this on video record, or even pictures of it—the tribe elder, a medicine man of sorts, had 'asked' (more motioned) her to leave them both aside. It was a decision that still plagued her to this day.

There was a young girl who had been attacked by a wild dog—possibly rabid. There were rips and tears all along the girl's arms and legs, and it was clear that she had lost a lot of blood. Immediately Heather had stopped, and turned to go get her bags, which at least had some first aid materials in them, but the elder had placed a hand on her arm, pulled her back. Somehow dazed, unable to command her body, she had come back, sat where she was motioned to, and watched.

There was a ritual, which she could tell was done hastily—the elder was aware that the girl was dying. He lay his hands over what appeared to be the worst wound, a gaping hole that nearly exposed the girl's ribs. What Heather saw then has haunted her ever since: the wounds began to close, began to heal somehow, and the girl's breath went from ragged to smooth, until (maybe an hour later) she appeared to not be harmed at all, only sleeping. The elder looked very tired indeed, and there was still blood on his hands, though it was drying.

He and Heather had shared a moment, where she was stuck dumb—not only by what she had witnessed, but why she had been invited at all. After all, there was no question that with her pale skin and sharp features she was an outsider. We are not savages, his gaze had seemed to say.

She had been sold for life. When it came time in two months to go back to the university, Heather dropped out. She called her parents, told them that instead she'd been going to a college in South Africa, and that the part of her tuition they paid for could be mailed to her. Of course, they didn't like this idea, but they were supportive. Heather used the money not to go to any college, but to keep herself on a research team. This did well enough while it lasted and she kept up the charade for a good 16 months, until her parents found out. Shortly after Heather stopped talking to them, and the checks stopped as well.

For the next few years she lived out of the back of a beat-up (but reliable, and that was what counted) Jeep—sometimes there would be a companion between villages (and in the event that the companion was male, this could lead to sex, on rare occasions—mostly whatever interest in having sex anywhere in Africa she had had, was crudely beaten out of her by her first year or two): usually it was just her. She sold some of her written articles and some of her pictures, took up research projects, and barely made it by. Eventually, about nine months before the plane crash, Heather came to a hard decision.

She wanted to try to show the world what she had witnessed—she wanted to expose the secret of that tribe, of the healing. The woman had only ever seen it as powerful as that first night, but her eyes (and something that went far deeper than sight) had been opened, and she could sense it everywhere. Mostly, she wanted funding from a university, some way to keep continuing her research, and presenting it to the public.

There was, as one may have expected, the nagging sensation that she was "selling out" something sacred for cash. It was a low, terrible thing to do (and she knew that in her gut, knew it in her dreams), but perhaps it could have good ends, even if the means were terrible—maybe it would help raise interest in Africa, raise awareness of the constant struggle for tribes to retain cultural identity. Then again, her discovery might only prove to be a fad for big businesses to cash in on, like whites trying to emulate the shaman-traditions of the people they had slaughtered, whose land they had stolen. Well, you are an American at heart, aren't you? She had often thought, sick with the decision, and sick that she could try to make light of it. That's what you're best at—selling culture to the masses at the expense of others. It's the American dream, honey.

Heather sent out some of her journals, enticing landscape and animal pictures, but the scientific community didn't bite—didn't want anything to do with her, ever skeptical of something that smacked of paranormal activity. Then, a film director in Sidney contacted her (which, as she spent much of her time out on the plains, was easier said than done), paid for her airplane ticket there, if she'd discuss an idea for a movie with him. Things there went well enough, and Heather was somewhat settled whenever she learned that he was interested in a documentary-esque film—not something purely fictional, something he could beef up and sell as a psuedo-action thriller hit.

Again though: guilt enveloped her—a documentary was better than an action movie, but a research book was better than that, and even better? if she had decided not to turn in someone's tradition for personal gain at all.

But they bought her a ticket for her flight to Los Angeles, primarily to Hollywood, and she had gotten a hold of her parents, was going to see them after six years of not talking or writing, and she busied herself with worrying about that. She had changed a lot in those years: Heather had come to Africa as a far too-thin college student who thought she knew everything about the world, and now her skin was darker, and there was definite muscle tone under it—not the kind one got from working out everyday, but the kind that develops out of necessity. She was still probably a bit too much on the thin side, but that began to right itself as she stayed for a few weeks in Sidney on the film director's tab.

Even her eyes had changed—before they had been dark brown, but they were lighter, if just slightly—one of the only things that stayed the same was her hair, which was black and retained its color because she mostly kept it hidden under a cowboy hat during the day (the villagers, especially the children, had loved this, enjoyed borrowing it while she was there).

The time came, and she boarded flight 815—there was a tremor in her gut for a moment, but she had chalked that up to regular, expected nervousness. What she didn't like about being around civilization again was that it was so busy, after living out in the wilds of Africa so long, she had gotten used to general calmness, if punctuated every once in a while by something shocking or truly frightening. Around all the cars and the electricity (she hated living in a hotel because she felt like she could hear all the TVs in the building, and had to unplug every appliance in her room) she could barely feel that current, the something that had been so strong, almost tangible back in her solitude, back in Africa.

The last thing that she remembered was watching the stewardesses begin to strap themselves in, and then the oxygen masks falling; there was a mad scramble where she yanked one over her mouth—then blackness.

"This has to be some kind of cruel karma," Heather murmurs to herself, shaking off the memories. "Has to be." She isn't normally one to talk to herself, but doesn't bother stopping it—these are extenuating circumstances, after all. She pushes aside a tall bush, and what she sees stops her dead in her tracks—jaw hanging wide. There are people milling about, and some walk in and out of caves—there are bags set up around plots of blankets, little beds: a camp.

"I'll be damned."