Читать книгу Castle of Water - Dane Huckelbridge, Dane Huckelbridge - Страница 14

7

A kick to the shin woke Barry up. Not a hard one, but a kick with definite insistence. He shot up in a disoriented haze, still woozy from sleep and essentially blind without his contact lenses. At the entrance of his shelter, he detected the nondescript blur of a human form.

“First of all,” a decidedly foreign female voice announced, “my name is not Sonya. It’s Sophie. I remembered your name, and you can at least get mine right.”

Barry scrambled to get in his contacts, taking a few tentative blinks to adjust to the light.

“Second of all, your French is terrible. And third of all, I need your help with the raft. I think we should move it over here.”

Sophie (yes, that was her name!) was standing resolutely before him, torso cocked slightly so as to see into his frond tent. She was wearing his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and knotted at the waist, and her short-cropped brown hair was cleaned and slicked back. Her eyes were rheumy and red, he suspected from crying, but also clear and focused—no sign of her stupor remained.

Barry crawled out of the shelter and rose to his feet, brushing the sand from his legs and arms as he did so. “How are you feeling? Is everything okay?”

Sophie expelled an exasperated, Gallic puff of air. Pfff. “That’s a stupid question, isn’t it?”

“Did anyone else . . .” Barry trailed off, not sure how to ask the question. “Did you see anybody else after the crash?”

Sophie shook her head and bit her lip. “Non,” she said in French, wincing visibly. “Il n’y avait personne.”

“God, I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m sorry for you, too. We’re both in the same position at the moment, in case you haven’t noticed.”

It was clear she didn’t want to discuss whatever had happened to her husband.

Barry made an attempt at clearing his throat. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? There’s water and bananas deeper in the island.”

“I know. I found them. Unlike you, I didn’t spend the whole day sleeping.”

No, you only spent the whole previous day practically comatose, Barry thought to himself, but he didn’t dare say it. “Well, have you seen any boats or planes? Someone must be looking for us.”

She shook her head again. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Shit.” Barry shoved his hands in his sand-gritty pockets. How many days had it been? Two and a half? Three? Surely the pilot radioed back some sign of distress. Naturally alarms must have been raised when the plane failed to arrive. Unquestionably there were rescue craft out trolling the seas, checking coordinates on maps, and monitoring little electric pings on some form of GPS device. After all, it was the twenty-first goddamn century.

“Come on, let’s go get the raft.” Sophie tightened the shirt knot and smoothed her hair back behind her ears. “There are some supplies in it, too.”

“Supplies?”

“Like a little survival kit. It’s attached to the inside.”

Barry perked up. A survival kit? After having to make do with disposable Bics and unripe bananas, a shot at some viable gear offered considerable promise. Who knew what treasures such a kit might contain? Clean changes of unisex clothing? Gallons of freshwater? Freeze-dried gourmet dinners? Astronaut ice cream? Wasting no time, Barry and Sophie hurried to the other side of the island to fetch it—he, in great excitement, humming “Frère Jacques,” and she, in great annoyance, kindly asking him to never sing that stupid song again, putain de merde.