The Island (closed)

[HumanBean]

"The Island"

Link to the OOC Thread

CLOSED​

Gregory Hamilton
46 years old
6'2"; muscular and trim
Blond hair; steel-blue eyes

Pacific Air 1122 left Sydney at 1750 hours, just 6 minutes behind schedule. Its passengers would have found themselves disembarking onto the tarmac in Honolulu just before sunrise – if they'd arrived at all.

Instead, when the sun rose above them, the 110 passengers, 4 flight attendants, and singularly assigned Air Marshall -- one Gregory Hamilton -- found themselves lying close side by side on a plastic tarp spread across open ground as if corpses collected after a tragic natural disaster. What they couldn't know – and might never know – was that shortly after takeoff, a sedative had been pumped into the plane's passenger compartment, rendering them unconscious for more than half a day.

When Gregory and the other 114 men, women, and children began to arouse, they would realize that the 200 feet wide by mile long section of cleared, packed ground below them was an airstrip. Standing to inspect his surroundings, Gregory spotted the recently created wide and deep tire tracks that ran the length of the strip. They indicated where the Boeing 737 had landed, and yet there was no sign of the jet at either end of the runway. As his mind cleared and he inspected the tracks more closely, though, Gregory realized that he was looking at two sets of tracks, practically one on top of the other. Pacific Air 1122 had landed, disembarked its passengers and crew -- less the two pilots, he would quickly realize -- and then took to the air once again.

Gregory Hamilton, a 46-year-old former Army MP, had been working as an Air Marshal since shortly after 9/11; while theoretically he worked for Homeland Security, he'd been assigned to specific airlines over the years, first for United, then Alaskan, and now Pacific Air. He'd seen his share of situations that airlines preferred to avoid. This, however, was like nothing he'd ever imagined – even a hijacking didn't explain this!

"This isn't Oahu," he murmured sardonically.

The Flight Attendant standing near Greg heard him and chuckled. They traded names and chatted a bit as they scanned the other waking passengers. There was obvious confusion throughout the group, with a dose of panic, fear, or anger to boot.

Looking to the thick, tropical jungle surrounding the strip, Greg told the Attendant, "I'm gonna take a walk, see what's out there."

Greg walked to the meeting of the clearing and the forest. The difference between the two landscapes was stark: the strip had obviously been recently maintained with tree and brush removal and leveling of the ground, all done with equipment that was now nowhere to be seen; the jungle, however, seemed untouched by mankind, virgin forest in every sense.

Looking about, Greg saw no sign of structures. An airport of any type or size should have had some sort of buildings, whether passenger terminals or freight cargo handling. The first thought to enter his mind was that this strip had been -- or possibly still was -- used for the transportation of illicit goods, whether drugs, arms, people, or something even more exotic.

Greg turned to his left and began walking parallel to the forest's edge, looking for signs of a road; unless cargo was being transferred from one plane to another, there had to be a road on which jeeps or trucks or even mules transported the goods onto or off of the strip to some unseen location.

But Greg found no signs of a road or even a path for people or pack animals. He walked the entire perimeter of the strip, almost three miles after paralleling all four sides. He found nothing but the strip, bulldozed piles of debris, and the forest beyond.

Greg stopped and studied the jungle for a long moment. There was an abundance of bird life in the trees, squawking and chirping as they flitted about. Although he saw no evidence of it at the moment, Greg would discover that the forest floor was populated by boars, hens, reptiles, and more. Since most of these species weren't indigenous to the islands of the South Pacific, they had to have been introduced by humans at some time in the past.

By the time he returned to the group, nearly all of the 114 others were up and milling about.

 

[AmyRoberts]

Gail Peters

Pacific Air 1122 had been Gail's route for almost 8 months now. She'd begun an affair with a married Aussie and requested the Sydney to Honolulu route to spend more time with him. She was about to learn how much her twice or thrice a week rendezvous with him was going to cost her.

"This isn't Oahu," a man near her murmured.

"Could be," she responded, chuckling at his expression when he looked to her. She added, "If it was a hundred years ago and they were just beginning to build HNL."

The acronym identified the flight's intended destination, Honolulu International Airport. It had been renamed Daniel K. Inouye International Airport years earlier but retained its previous three letter designation.

"Where's the plane?" Gail asked. It was one of many questions she could have asked. She reintroduced herself to the man she knew to be the flight's air marshal, then – in a soft voice meant to limit the other's recognition of her own confusion – she asked her follow up question: "What the fuck is going on?"

The Marshall didn't seem to have any more answers than Gail did. She looked for but saw no signs of the pilot or copilot. She told the marshal with obvious disappointment, "Looks like I'm senior. Guess I better tend to the herd before it gets scared and stampedes."

"I'm gonna take a walk," the Marshall told Gail, "see what's out there."

"If you find a Starbucks…" she quipped. As he walked off, Gail smoothed down her uniform, checked her hair, determined that she was as presentable as she could be, and addressed the passengers. "Ladies and gentlemen…"

The next hour or so was spent mostly just keeping the passengers calm. There was confusion and fear, of course. More than once the word hijacking was spoken, and each time Gail tried to reassure the others that no such thing had happened, someone would ask, "How do you know?" or "Is there another explanation?" or something to that effect.

Gail, along with the other flight attendants, made their way from one passenger to the next, checking in with each and everyone of them. Each was seemingly healthy, though a couple were suffering panic attacks. Gail identified those passengers who seemed to be handling the situation better and asked them to help the others. Some did help, while others only caused more problems with their constant questioning of WTF.

Looking for the Marshall, Gail found him in the distance walking the edge of the forest surrounding the landing strip. She didn't know he was looking for a road or some sign of human presence on the island. She wished he'd get his ass back here and take charge.

In her mind, without the cabin crew, the marshal was the person in charge. Gail didn't honestly know whether or not that was true. This wasn't exactly a situation spoken of in the training manuals.

The others were all up and about by the time the marshal returned. Gail met him a bit away from the others, reporting the relatively surprising calm.

"I think we may have been drugged," she told him. "Everyone feels a bit loopy. I do, a bit. It would explain how we all got to where we are now without knowing what was happening to us."

She looked to the passengers and continued, "I think we need to get everyone out of the sun. With no water, we're going to start having problems with…"

Gail didn't really need to continue; it was obvious that the marshal understood. She called out to them, "Attention everyone, attention. We're going to move over there, to the tree line, where we'd can get out of the sun. Please, grab your things, and if you can help your neighbor with their things..."

Soon enough, the entire group was on its feet and moving toward the landing strip's west side. Gail watched and supervised as she needed. Then she turned back to the Marshall and asked with hope in her tone, "Did you find anything out there that will explain this?"

 

[HumanBean]

Gregory Hamilton:

(OOC – I like your idea of putting the Character name at the top of the post. It will be important as the number of characters increases. I went back and added Greg's name to my first post.)

Returning to the group, Greg met Gail as she walked out to meet him. He shrugged, telling her, "There's nothing here. Nothing. No buildings, no roads … no people … 'cept us, of course."

"I think we may have been drugged," Gail told him, talking about feeling loopy.

"I agree," Greg responded. He'd felt a bit awkward before and during his walk. Mostly to himself he mumbled, "I just can't figure this out. I mean … who did this to us?"

He looked to Gail again, continuing his thinking, "As far as that goes, what did they do to us? What are they doing to us? I mean, the best I can figure here is that someone wanted the plane … stole the plane. They obviously didn't want us, so it's not a kidnapping."

Gail looked to the passengers, saying, "I think we need to get everyone out of the sun. With no water, we're going to start having problems with…"

"I agree, absolutely," Greg responded. "I'm going to have a chat with some of the passengers."

Gail and her three flight crew subordinates set about moving the group. Greg watched over the activity without actually offering much help; instead, he studied the others, as was his nature, both professionally and personally.

He knew he could learn a lot about people by the way they move, the way they look about themselves at or to others, the way they interact physically with those others. And that was without them speaking; the spoken word only multiplied the potential knowledge gained.

Greg's attention fell upon a male passenger who seemed a bit sketchy in his movements. The man – Greg would learn his name was Lance King – seemed to be paying a bit more attention than he should have to the others' carry on luggage.

A female passenger caught his attention, too. Greg couldn't really put his finger on what it was about her that bothered him, though.

The third person to draw his attention wasn't a passenger but was a flight attendant. The way the woman studied him bothered Greg. He couldn't help but think that she was as suspicious of him as he was of her. But his suspicion of her was because of her suspicion of him. Chicken, egg, chicken, egg.

Once the entire group was moving, Greg noticed that there was some carry-on baggage left behind. He gestured to Gail, then to the bags, calling to her, "Do we know who these belong to?"

The bags – 6 in total, including a guitar case and a locked, metal briefcase – were gathered and taken to the shaded area. There was a flash in the distant sky, followed by a loud, low rumbling.

"Let's get the tarp," Greg said, nodding his head toward the male flight attendant. "We need to build a shelter. I think a storm is coming."

He looked to one of the more helpful passengers, Peter Kimball, then to a nearby flight attendant, Eloise Friendly. Greg caught the eye of Lance King, and wanting to keep the man close to him, he forced a smile and suggested, "You wanna help?"

"Sure," Lance said with a reluctant tone. "Why not?"

The four of them retrieved the tarp, brought it to the forest's edge to construct a lean-to. Peter shimmied up a tree, then another, to secure the tarp using its grommets and shoulder straps from carry-on bags.

Stumps and logs had been left around the runway's perimeter by the runway's construction, bulldozed to the jungle's edge. Greg and the others dragged some of them out into the cleared area and anchored two corners of the tarp.

It wasn't much of a shelter, certainly not large enough to serve them all well; it had barely been large enough for all of their unconscious bodies to lay upon it, side by side in three rows. But it would keep most of them dry when it rained or keep them out of the direct sun when the sky was clear.

Using limbs placed vertically between the sand and about every third grommet, they created troughs to catch rainwater. They placed anything that could serve as a container at the low spots. Right on cue, Mother Nature began emptying the overhead clouds, providing them with some badly needed hydration.

Greg found a relatively dry spot in the forest under a plant's massive leaf. He sat in the sand and just watched the others with interest.

 

[AmyRoberts]

Gail Peters

Gail found a seat on one of the logs the others had drug into the shelter of the tarp, sidling up close to Marla Stein, one of the other two female flight attendants. Marla was a half dozen years older than Gail, and she had almost that many years more on the job as well.

Officially, Marla should have been the Senior Flight Attendant on the flight. But a few years back she'd made a little booboo that had nearly ended her career. She'd joined the Mile High Club in the First Class lavatory with an Airline Executive who later told the wrong people about the experience and got fired.

Marla managed to keep her job by threatening a sexual harassment lawsuit. She was never going to advance, she knew, but keeping a paycheck and benefits was far more important to her.

"I was talking to some of the passengers," Marla said in a soft tone that was almost a whisper. "I discovered something that, well, it just seems really weird."

A few minutes later, Gail led Marla and Francis, the third female attendant, out to where Greg was gathering firewood after the end of the short rain shower.

"We've been chatting with the passengers, and we've learned something that you should know," she told the Air Marshal. She peaked back at the passengers, who now seemed a lot more animated in their conversations than they had been during the rain. Looking to Greg again, Gail explained, "Each and every passenger we talked to – which was almost all of them – is, or was, I should say, on this flight because they had won their tickets."

She paused, then continued, "All of them! They all won travel packages: airline tickets, hotel stays, rental cars in some cases, tickets to amusement parks–"

Marla interrupted, "And if that isn't weird enough, some of them – Aussies, Kiwis, and such – won these packages for Hawaii or California or DC. They were on their way to their fun in the sun. Some others won them for Australian locations and were on their way home, via HNL, which is strange because the folks who'd come from the Mainland US wouldn't normally fly through Honolulu – they'd fly direct from LA or Seattle."

Gail gave Greg a serious expression as she said, "I don't think it's a coincidence that these particular people were all on the same flight, a flight that happened to end with them all being dumped out on a muddy runway of a deserted tropical island."

Before the Air Marshal could respond, Francis asked, "Do we honestly know it's an island? Or that it's deserted?"

 

[HumanBean]

Post for Greg Hamilton:

It was a good question: were they on an island? It was very likely if they were still in the South Pacific. But that wasn't for certain, was it? If they had been unconscious long enough, they could be back in Australia – an island, technically – or even in Asia.

"Let's find out," Greg suggested. "Who wants to go for a walk?"

He organized 4 teams of 2 to investigate the forest surrounding the air strip. Seriously, he explained the rules:

• Stay within eyesight of each other at all times.
• After 30 minutes, turn back, regardless of how far you got.
• Mark your path. (They ripped up some clothes, some First Class cloth napkins, and more into "ribbons" to mark limbs.)

"Last but not least," he continued, "if you come across other people or evidence of other people, turn back and don't be seen."

"Why?" he was asked. "Maybe they can help us."

There was a lively conversation about the pros and cons of being discovered by others, which ended with Greg again stressing, "We don't want strangers we don't know to know about us. At least, not yet. If you find someone else, return to camp and find me. I'll check it out."

One of the Business Class passengers who Greg thought had an air of superiority asked with a challenging tone, "Why you? What makes you special? A passenger from Coach in a cheap suit? And why are you the one organizing everything? Telling us what to do?"

Greg hadn't planned on announcing his profession in such a way, but this seemed as good a time as any. He moved forward to one of the logs set out as a place to sit and lifted his foot onto it.

"I'm the Air Marshal," he said, "which means that in the absence of the pilot, I'm in charge."

As he'd been talking, Greg was lifting the cuff of his right pant leg. He pulled out a snub nose, 5 shot, .38 Special revolver and added, "And I'm the one with the gun."

One of the women scoffed softly. When Greg met her eyes, she asked, "You have a gun, so that puts you in charge?"

"No, TSA rules and Federal Law put me in charge," Greg responded. He glanced toward the Biz Class man, then back to the woman challenging him. "But if you want to face potentially dangerous strangers protected only by the Suit and his Montblanc fountain pen … go for it."

The reactions varied from concern to laughter. Greg gestured toward his scouting partner and asked, "Shall we?"

Some of the others quickly jockeyed to be the armed Greg's partner, but he only gestured to the same woman again. The pair headed toward the southeast corner of the air strip. Reaching the jungle, Greg looked back to see the other 3 pairs heading off; they seemed less enthusiastic now that they knew a gun might be helpful and they didn't have one.

"We'll just try to find a path and follow it a ways," Greg told her. He tied one of the ribbons conspicuously on a limb, marking their entry point into the woods. "Okay. Let's see if we can find a beach."

The going was slow. There was nothing close to a path that they could follow; they just pushed their way through the foliage, sometimes breaking limbs and fronds. Every 20 or 30 feet, depending on how thick the forest was, they would tie another ribbon above their head to make it more conspicuous.

"Do you hear that?" Greg asked at one point. They moved on another hundred feet or so, pushed through some branches, and there before them was a sandy beach. Greg smiled at the woman and said, "See? Island."

 

[AmyRoberts]

Eloise Friendly, flight attendant

Eloise almost leapt to her feet when the air marshal gestured to her. She'd had a thing for Greg since the first time they met, some six or seven weeks ago when they flew together the first time.

She'd quickly offered to accompany him scouting. That was ironic, of course, as she was typically very shy around men.

Men had no problem talking to Eloise, though. She was a cute little thing with a wide, perfect smile and a smoking hot body.

The first and only man to ever have spread Eloise's legs had recently dumped her. She'd enjoyed sex with Carl.

But talking to her girlfriends and female coworkers about him, she'd come to realize that she'd given far more to him than he'd given to her.

Eloise was ready to find a man who would do for her as much as she would do for him. She'd hinted to Greg that she was once again single on their last flight together. She'd been hoping that he might ask her out once they reached Honolulu.

Neither had happened, obviously. Yet, here they were together…

At the jungle's edge she watched Greg tie a piece of cloth to a limb. She forced herself to say something,

"That was really smart … the flag thing. Kinda like Hansel and Gretel … 'cept, we don't have to worry about forest critters eating the crumbs we drop across the forest floor … ya know … 'cause we aren't … ya know?"

Greg led the way. Eloise followed far enough back so she wouldn't be hit by any limbs flipping back. Her company issued work shoes hadn't been made for hiking, nor had her stockings. But one of the passengers had volunteered a pair of sneakers and soft, cotton socks.

She was watching the time on her watch. She was about to tell Greg they needed to head back, per his own rules.

But together, they heard the sound of crashing waves. Soon, they were looking out over a slight cliff and a sandy beach.

"It's beautiful," she said. She added, "Even considering how we got here."

When the air marshal repeated his opinion that they were on an island, Eloise giggled. Catching his eye, she smiled. "A beach does not an island make."

She giggled again, grasped Greg's hand, and said, "Help me down, and we'll walk the beach a ways … see if you're right."

 

[HumanBean]

Greg Hamilton:

He was surprised to feel Eloise's hand grasping his own and pulling him toward the beach. He held position for a moment; they should have turned back already, and going down to the beach would mean a delay that might worry the others.

But Greg let Eloise pull him to and down the edge. It wasn't steep nor was it strewn with loose gravel or sand, so they descended to the beach easily. Eloise hurried ahead of Greg toward the surf while he unhurriedly began walking down the beach, looking back towards the treeline and up and down the shore for answers.

Still, Greg didn't have enough information to know whether they were on an island or not. And at the moment, there wasn't time to figure it out.

He turned back to the ocean and simply stared out beyond the crashing surf, thinking. This whole situation was simply baffling.

Greg just couldn't figure out why someone would do this to them? Was it to steal the plane? There were easier ways to do that, he thought. Was it a kidnapping? If so, it was the strangest one he'd ever heard of. Maybe there had been something on the plane that made this all worthwhile: a case full of gold bars or lead lined trunks full of weapons grade nuclear fuel.

Maybe it was some kind of social experiment, a real version of the "unreality" reality show "Survivor".

After a long moment, Greg turned his attention back to his scouting partner, knowing they should head back to the airstrip.

 

[AmyRoberts]

Eloise had always loved the beach. Being here now almost made her forget how they'd come to get here.

Looking back to Greg, she found him engrossed in everything around him except for the warm sand.

Phooey on him, Eloise thought. She shed her borrowed sports shoes and socks and wriggled her toes down into the warm sand. It was simply marvelous. A smile spread across her lips.

There're worse places to be dumped, I guess, Eloise thought.

She looked back to Greg again, studying him. He was so handsome. And he had a great personality. And he was brave and strong and determined … and handsome. Already thought that, didn't I?

Eloise wanted Greg, in the worst way.

It had been a couple of months since her one and only lover dumped her. She'd been hurt badly, deeply. She'd lived with that pain quietly.

But after meeting Greg, Eloise had decided that things had to change. Of course, she hadn't expected this kind of change.

Still, she was here, Greg was here; the sand was warm and the surf inviting; and her body yearned desperately for what she'd been missing for weeks, something she hoped Greg could give her.

Eloise looked at the surf. Again, her lips spread in a smile.

"Let's take a dip," she called to Greg. She looked toward the air marshal; he was still staring out over the ocean. She called out, "Hey!"

When Greg looked her way, Eloise was already opening her unbuttoned blouse. She pulled it off and tossed it inland a few feet. She popped loose the snap at the small off her back, pulled down her skirt's zipper, then shed and tossed away that part of her airline uniform.

Eloise stood before the subject of her lust in a modestly sexy set of underclothes. She had a gorgeous body: she measured 34-22-36; she was tight, with a smooth belly and firm pear shaped ass; her legs were long and athletic (for her height of only 5'6"); and her flawless skin was wonderfully tanned from forehead to tippy toes.

"C'mon, let's take a dip," she suggested, nodding her head toward the ocean. "Just a couple'a minutes."

In her mind, of course, Eloise was imagining a couple of minutes splashing about in the water, followed by far more minutes rolling about on the sand with Greg between her parted thighs.

 

[HumanBean]

Greg Hamilton:

He stared in awe as the flight attendant began revealing herself to him. By the time she was down to her bra and panties, Greg could feel his cock rapidly hardening within his tight fitting briefs. He had a need to rearrange his erection as it swelled in an awkward way, but Eloise's eyes were firmly upon him and he didn't want to embarrass himself.

She was amazing, not that that surprised Greg. From his aisle seats, he'd been watching Eloise walk up and down the aisle of the Pacific Air jets for weeks. He'd lusted deeply for her without knowing that she had for him as well.

She invited Greg to join her in the surf, and he was about to begin shedding his own clothes when a sound caught his attention; it barely overcame the crashing of the waves just yards away.

Looking up the beach, then down, then to the lengthy treeline, Greg saw nothing unusual. He then looked toward the ocean, and a glint of light – a reflection of sun on metal – told him where the sound was coming from and what was making it: a large aircraft, approaching the island at a low altitude, as if coming in to land.

"Put your clothes on, Ellie" Greg said, using the nickname he'd heard her coworkers use at times. He took another long look at her, amazed that he was speaking those words. Here would have preferred to tell her to take more clothes off. He gestured toward the distant sky, waited for her to see the plane, and repeated, "Put your clothes on. We need to get back to the airstrip."

Looking back to the quickly approaching jet, Greg wondered whether this was a rescue craft or another delivery of abandoned passengers.

 

[AmyRoberts]

Eloise:

The expression on Greg's face delighted Eloise. So did the bulge that had become obvious in the air marshal's crotch. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, she was certain. Or, his cock did, at least.

But would he go for her? It wasn't as if they were dancing in a club, looking to get laid. They were dealing with the strangest of situations. Was he really likely to rip his clothes off and take her, here and now?

Eloise smiled again and nodded toward the water. "C'mon. It'll feel good."

She meant the water … but also what she was certain would follow. Eloise had no doubt that if she could get Greg into the waves, she could get him into her pussy, too.

But before that could happen, they were looking at a plane coming directly at them. As directed, Eloise was quickly gathering her clothes and pulling them on.

She was disappointed, of course. But a plane…? This was far more important.

She hurried for the cliff, getting help up it from Greg. When they reached the top, Eloise grabbed Greg with both hands and pulled him to her. She rose on her tippy toes and pressed her mouth to his. It was a quick kiss yet still filled with passion.

She smiled again and whispered, "Just in case we don't get a chance to do that later … ya know."

 

[HumanBean]

Despite the way Eloise had surprised him on the beach, Greg was surprised yet again when she pushed against his body and kissed him. He had barely begun to respond when she pulled her lips from his and instead used her mouth to explain what she'd done.

She didn't need to explain, of course. She didn't need a reason to kiss him at all. Eloise had been welcome to do so since the first moment Greg saw her wonderful ass swaying its way brennen the aisles of their first flight together.

He pulled the young beauty to him again to engage in a longer, more passionate kiss. One of his hands caressed its way to the small of her back to force their groins together. Eloise certainly had to feel the bulge of his semi-hardened – and hardening yet again – cock against her lower belly.

The embrace was interrupted by the sudden roar of the aircraft almost directly overhead. Greg turned and looked up, catching sight of it for only a couple of seconds before it was lost to him beyond the jungle's canopy.

"C-130," Greg murmured after a moment, adding, "C-130 Hercules."

He explained to Eloise, "C-130 Hercules. It's a transport plane, from the '60s. Vietnam. I mean, they're still making them today, but…"

Greg had another thought in his head, though. "It was flying too high to be landing, and … fuck!"

He grabbed the flight attendant's hand and began dragging her behind him through the jungle as he called back over his shoulder, "Its payload doors were open. It's not landing; it's making an airdrop. We gotta get back!"

There was no hurry, of course, since being there or not being there wouldn't change what was – or maybe wasn't – happening. But the anxious excitement inside him had Greg pumped, and he was desperate to get back to the airstrip.

After just a dozen yards or so, he released hold of Eloise's hand; as he pushed through the thick undergrowth, he was only slapping her with the limbs and fronds that he was pushing out of his own face.

"Stay with me!" he told her over his shoulder. "If I get too far ahead, holler!"

Greg glanced back every ten or twenty yards, ensuring Eloise was still with him. At one point, they lost the ribbon-marked trail and had to stop. But they found one of the torn clothes, then another, and were once again heading for the airstrip.


At the airstrip:

Peter Kimball had been gathering firewood from the bulldozed piles between the jungle and the airstrip when he, too, heard the roar of the big transport plane's four engines. Searching the sky, he caught sight of it heading for the runway – on which a small group of passengers were having a conversation about the only thing on anyone's mind: WTF is happening here?

"Clear the runway!" he hollered, dropping his armload of wood and running toward the airstrip. He gestured in the direction of the incoming aircraft as he continued, "Clear the runway! Move! Move! There's a plane coming in to land! Get off the runway!"

It took a moment for the others to realize what was happening, but as soon as they did, they all began evacuating the runway with haste. Peter stopped when he saw that the others would soon be safe and turned his attention to the plane.

He couldn't tell that the plane's rear payload doors were open; truthfully, he didn't know the aircraft had such things, as he wasn't that knowledgeable about military aircraft and couldn't have told you the incoming plane was a cargo transport, let alone a C-130 Hercules.

But it didn't take a genius to quickly realize that the plane was far too high to be making a landing. Thinking of the pilots, Peter thought, maybe their checking to see that the runway is clear … for a landing on the second pass.

The truth revealed itself, though, as a white sheet of cloth emerged from the rear of the transport, caught the wind, and poofed into the obvious shape of a parachute. A moment later, a large, cube-shaped object emerged from the aircraft and began falling toward the ground. The speed of the plane, combined with its low altitude, meant that what Peter would quickly realize was a pallet in a net attached to the parachute wasn't falling toward the ground so much as it was gliding toward it.

The plane had begun releasing the cargo while it was still over the jungle. The pallet's path took it into the canopy. Its momentum crashed it through the foliage but not in whole; the netting ripped open, spilling out dozens of boxes of supplies.

Even before the first drop's contents began hitting and rolling across the ground, another parachute had emerged, followed by a second pallet. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth, and finally a sixth pallet; they left the transport close together, and yet because of the aircraft's speed and the relative shortness of the runway – barely a mile – the last pallet disappeared into the forest with a crashing sound Peter barely heard over the C-130's engines.

 

[AmyRoberts]

Eloise welcomed Greg's embrace and kiss. And yes, she did feel his erection against her. She welcomed it, too. She thought, If only we had the time.

They didn't, though. Greg explained about the plane, and off they went.

There was a horrific crashing sound in the forest before them. "Was that the plane? Did it crash?"

Soon enough, they burst out into the open of the air strip. Eloise slowed to a walk and just stared; all up and down the air strip were pallets of unknown goods; big, billowing parachutes wafted from them in the wind.

"Look!" Eloise called to Greg. She pointed to dozens of cardboard boxes, wooden crates, and heavy-duty plastic containers strewn across the end of the air strip. She hurried over to them. "Medical supplies, food, clothing … this one says Implements, Farming. What the fuck do we need farming implements for? And what does farming implements mean? Like, hoes and rakes and shovels?"


At the Tarp Lean-to:

Gail Peters watched the pallets as they left the plane, descended to the ground, and slid across the muddy runway. One of them struck awkwardly, did a flip, and scattered its contents all about the hard packed clay.

The plane disappeared behind the forest. Soon, the sound of it was gone, too. The passengers were abuzz with curiosity. Some of them began moving to the air strip; soon, almost everyone was moving that way.

"Food!" someone called out. "And bottled water."

Others called out things on the pallets: clothes, rope, tools, water purification units, boxes of gardening seeds, instruction manuals for a variety of projects, and much more.

Gail began to realize the obvious, the horrible, horrible obvious: if the people responsible for what was happening here had their way, the passengers and crew of Pacific Air 1122 weren't leaving this place for a long time, if ever.

 

[HumanBean]

Greg met Eloise near the debris field that was the first pallet dropped. It appeared quite a mess, but in the end they would find that most of the supplies had weathered the crash through the canopy intact.

He quickly began to realize the same thing Gail was understanding farther down the runway: someone was supplying the group for a long stay here.

In the distance, there was a flash, followed several seconds later by a low rumble. Another downpour was likely coming their way.

"Everyone! Listen up!" Greg called as he snatched up a cardboard box and ran down the runway. "We need to get all of this under cover before the rain gets here! Cardboard boxes first! Then anything else that can be damaged by these rain."

Some of the passengers had already started opening boxes, mostly the ones labeled as containing food. Since finding themselves here, the only thing they had had to eat were the meager airline meals and snack foods that had been thankfully left behind along with the passengers' carryon luggage.

Greg again stressed the need to move the cargo under cover, and slowly but surely most of the passengers were joining the crew in doing so.

"What about the drop that went into the forest, down there," Peter asked Greg. "It's probably scattered everywhere, just like the first one was."

"Come with me," Greg said as he headed that way. "Let's check it out."

When they arrived, Greg found that Peter had been exactly right; there were boxes and bags and cases everywhere, and a portion of them had broken open, spilling their contents.

"Anything that can be harmed by the rain goes first," he said. "I'll go get us some more help."

"What about bringing one of the parachutes down here to cover it all up," Peter suggested, pointing out to the clearing and adding, "We move it out there?"

"Are parachutes waterproof … water resistant?" Greg asked. When Peter shrugged – and the sky again flashed and cracked with the nearing storm cloud – Greg conceded, "It's the best option for now. I'll get one."

And the race was on. Greg hurried back down the airstrip to tell the others the plan: move what needed to be under the plastic tarp there

and then wrap the chutes around what remained and tie them down with the paracord.

In just a bit more than 30 minutes, the sky above them opened up, and a deluge that would last a day and a half began…

 

[HumanBean]

(OOC: As she so thankfully did with another of my roleplays, PennySaver had volunteered to step into this one to write the female (and some male) roles. Thank you so very much.)

 

[PennySaver]

Gail:

She was pillaging through the scattered goods as Greg called out. "We need to get all of this under cover before the rain gets here!"

She looked around herself. There was so much from which to choose. She noticed a box labeled Seeds, assorted. She was a gardener at heart. She'd grown up on a farm and had patio gardens at both of her apartments in Honolulu and Sydney.

Gail knew the seeds needed to be out of the rain. She also knew why the seeds had been dropped. The people behind this intended the people of PA1122 to plant them. This was about feeding the 115 people on the island. It only confirmed Gail's earlier supposition. She and the others weren't intended to be leaving any time soon.

She snatched up the box of seeds and hurried for the lean-to. Then, back out she went. She found a box labeled First Aid. Another said Hygiene. She continued making trips out and back until word was passed that the parachutes would protect most everything else.

(OOC: The other women performed similar work. They do not need to be posted for. Go ahead. I'm going to create some more characters, as we discussed, but probably not today. Family time.)

 

[HumanBean]

Greg stood just inside the lean-to, watching the rain pounding down all around them. It had been a while since he'd been caught in a heavy downpour, and he'd forgotten just how powerful Mother Nature could be. Up and down the landing strip, the wind fluttered the parachutes hiding the balance of the cargo that had had to be left where it was.

Turning, he looked at that portion of the delivery that had been retrieved. Much of it had been stacked two or three or four boxes or crates high; there was only enough room under the tarp for the passengers because some of them were sitting atop the stacks. Greg knew that they would have to do something about this before the group could settle down for the night.
Most of the castaways -- what Greg was beginning to think of them as -- were involved in one way or another in pillaging through the delivery. Some were opening and distributing food, water, and other drinks; others were simply looking through the containers, inventorying them without any real organization. As time went by, Greg began to detect a bit of tension between some of the more aggressively searching castaways.

"Hey, can I have everyone's attention, please?" Greg called out. He barely got a result from the excited group. He called out louder, "Hey! Please! Can I have your attention?"

A few more faces turned to face Greg. At the same time, though, some of those who had turned to give him the attention he wanted suddenly realized that those who hadn't were continuing to grab and snatch at things they saw of interest to themselves and reacted with varying levels of anger.

"Hey! Knock it the fuck off!" Greg cried out angrily. This time, he got almost universal attention from the group. He glared at some of the castaways who'd been the most aggressive. Once he thought he had control, he demanded, "Everyone just sit down ... settle down ... and relax."

The results varied, but for the most part, the castaways calmed down considerably. He gave them all a minute before continuing. "Everyone just needs to take it easy."

He shifted his gaze around as he talked, not wanting any one person to think he was speaking directly to them. He considered what he wanted to say, then continued. "We're acting like a mob. We can't act like this. It's not good for us."

Greg was sure to use we and not you, even though he himself hadn't been pillaging like the others had. He continued glancing about at the people who'd been acting more greedily. He gestured to one of the guys with his hands full of food, telling him quietly but firmly, "Put it down. Go ahead."

The man complied, though obviously with reluctance. He said to the group as a whole, "Please, everyone: put down whatever you have and settle." He waited for a response and, to a degree, got it. "Please, everyone. Whatever you've taken, please put it back." He gestured an extended finger before him, meaning to indicate the haul, saying, "This all belongs to all of us. No one of us gets anything more or less than anyone else."

Throughout the tent, the castaways began putting things back into the containers from which they'd come or atop other goods. Some parents chastised their children about things they were hiding or had pocketed; significant others did the same in some cases, too. Greg could tell via body language and expressions that not everyone had given up what they'd discovered, but he wasn't about to begin searching bodies.

"If we are going to intelligently make use of what was delivered to us today--" Greg began.

But the same man who'd interrupted him earlier in the day for expressing his authority cut him off again: "Who put you in charge? Why are you making the decisions?"

There was a murmur through the lean-to: a few seemed to support the man's inquiry, but most chastised the man for interrupting and/or challenging Greg. He himself didn't immediately respond. He considered what he wanted to say, then -- wanting to avoid this subject again in the near future -- he said, "You're right. I'm not in charge. No one put me in charge--"

"But you're the Air Marshall," one of the women cut in. "You're the law. You're the only law enforcement officer on board ... right?"

There was another murmur amongst the castaways, to which Greg raised a hand and gestured for quiet. "Yes, I'm the Air Marshall. And yes, I'm the only law enforcement officer on board ... or ... not on board but ... here now." He could tell from some nodding heads, that he got agreement from a good portion of the crowd, so he continued. "But I wasn't selected to lead you all. There is a difference."

Greg hadn't intended to do this so soon, but he offered, "I think it would be good for us as a group ... to select a leader." He thought maybe he was losing some of them by a sudden shift in expressions, so he quickly added, "Temporarily! We pick a leader to serve for a couple of days ... maybe a week. And ... if that person isn't working out for the majority of us ... we can have another election ... on the spot. I'm not talking, like, a four year term or anything like that. Just until we get ourselves settled in. A couple of days."

 

[PennySaver]

Eloise:

(OOC: Imagine Eloise in a blouse, not topless as in the following pic.)

The young attractive flight attendant felt a bit exposed after finishing with bringing in supplies from the rain. A passenger had loaned her a pair of sweats to replace her uniform's skirt. She'd continued to wear the company issued blouse, though. It was thin and white and, now, soaked by the rain. Her tight little breasts with their ever-pert nipples were very much on display. She got quite a few hungry glances from some of the male passengers. Honestly, she got a couple of ogles from female passengers, too.

"Here, put this on," Gail said to her. The slightly older Flight Attendant offered Eloise a jacket someone had offered. Gail leaned in and whispered, "Your high beams are on, and you're blinding everyone."

Gail chuckled playfully. Eloise in turn giggled nervously and blushed a fiery red. She murmured, "Not my fault, you know."

"No one's fault," Gail responded, again chuckling. She went on, "Fact of life. But ... unless you're looking for about twenty horny men to fight over you..."

Eloise understood. She pulled the jacket on and zipped it up halfway. She looked toward the fire that had been built earlier. It was tightly surrounded by a number of people who'd been in the rain, too. She'd survive, she guessed.

She looked to Greg, smiling to herself. Really, all she needed was for him to wrap his arms around her and keep her warm. That didn't seem too appropriate at the moment. He was working. Eloise could see the gears turning in his head as he studied the airdrop and the others. (OOC: Castaways, I like that. Gonna use it.)

She began to worry a bit when the din around her began to rise. The castaways were getting anxious about the cargo they'd brought in from the runway. People were already beginning to horde things into their pockets and personal bags. She knew immediately that this was going to be an issue. Again, she looked to Greg.

And the Air Marshall took charge once again. He calmed everyone down. And he came up with a plan.

Then, a man who'd spoken up against Greg earlier did so again. "Who put you in charge? Why are you making the decisions?"
Eloise didn't like this other man. She didn't know him. But she'd already decided. Greg was the Air Marshall. He was the law, as far as Flight 1122 went. And she was hot for him, not that that should mean anything but it did in her mind. In Eloise's eyes, Greg was the perfect man to lead the group.

"You're right," Greg responded to the man. "I'm not in charge. No one put me in charge--"

"But you're the Air Marshall," Eloise quickly tossed out. She suddenly felt very conspicuous. Still, she continued, "You're the law. You're the only law enforcement officer on board ... right?"

Greg raised a hand to settle the castaways again. He confirmed what Eloise had reminded the others. Then he said, "But I wasn't selected to lead you all. There is a difference." He suggested they select a leader.

Eloise didn't hesitate, calling out, "I nominate the Air Marshall."

A couple of dozen pairs of eyes turned her way. She again felt very conspicuous. But she didn't care. Eloise wanted Greg Hamilton to be in charge. She felt safe with him at the controls, as he might have been if they'd been in the air without pilots. And she knew that he liked her. That would seem to bode well for her, wouldn't it?

Greg went on. He suggested they select a temporary leader. Some of the castaways seemed to like that. Others didn't. Eloise didn't care what those people thought.

Gail:

Gail had been watching the goings-on. She thought Greg had the beginnings of a good idea. But she could see that some of the crowd wasn't having it. Some of the castaways were hungry for their share of the air drop. Others were more concerned about the distribution of power that was being discussed. Either way, she thought she needed to speak her peace. She was, after all, the senior crew member now, what with the absence of the pilot and copilot.

"Hey!" she called out. She gained a little attention but not enough. She repeated louder, "Hey! Hey, listen up!"

Little by little, most of the faces turned her way. She thought of what she wanted to say. She began, "For those of you who don't know who I am, my name is Gail Peters. I am the In-Flight Service Manager for Pacific Air Flight 1122." She shrugged. "Basically, I'm in charge of the crew of Flight Attendants."

She glanced at Greg and smiled. Scanning the crowd again, she continued. "We aren't all going to agree on who's in charge. If they were here, the pilots would say they were--"

Someone interrupted with an angry tone, "Yeah! Where the fuck are the pilots?"

There was a short uproar. Gail and some others worked to quiet it down. "The pilots aren't here, of course. So, legally, authority does, in fact, fall to the Air Marshall."

There was another roll of discontented murmurs. Gail went on, "Some of you don't like that. That's fine."

She looked to Greg for his reaction and went on. "So, I have another idea. We don't select one leader. We select more than one."

"How many" someone called out. Another person quickly added, "Who? Who we gonna pick?"

Gail gestured for quiet again. She suggested, "I think we should elect a Council."

There was a laugh somewhere in the crowd. "Did they do that on Survivor?"

There was more laughter, more argument, and generally more noise. Gail waited until the noise had waned again. "The Air Marshall is the law here, whether some of you like that or not. So, I say he joins the Council regardless. I also believe that one of the Flight Crew ... one of the Stewards ... joins, because we are, theoretically, in charge of the safety and comfort of you all."

Someone laughed, using the word stewardess and some derogatory words all together in a demeaning way. Gail thought a fight was going to break out. One of the other passengers took offense to the criticism and gave the offending men a shove. Things settled quickly, though.

"And...!" Gail interrupted. The others looked her way again. She continued, "And I think we should have ... what, maybe 3 passengers on the Council."

Again, someone called out, "Who?"

More excited discussion erupted. It was quieted again. Gail continued, "I think maybe we should ... assign one or two of them and vote on the others."

"What's that mean, assign?" someone interjected.

"I think we should give weight to someone who has something valuable to offer," Gail clarified. She asked, "Is there a Doctor here?"

One woman raised her hand tentatively. A moment later, a man said, "I'm a surgeon."

"Good!" Gail responded with excitement. "The advice of a medical professional could be good for us." She looked around the group as she suggested, "Maybe one of these doctors should be selected for the Council...?"

Gail was making the assumption that the Council was already a gimme.

 

[HumanBean]

Greg Hamilton and Lance King

Greg had been busy at the far end of the airstrip with Peter and hadn't truly taken notice of the rain-drenched Eloise until the work was halted. He'd always known she was a beautiful, sexy woman -- he'd been watching her walk the aisles of Pacific Air flights for nearly two months -- but to see her with her blouse and borrowed sweat bottoms glued to her curves they were now was enough to harden his cock once more. He was almost sorry to see Gail bring the girl a jacket to hide her womanly features.

He was happy, though, to have Gail jump in during the conversation about how to choose a leadership for the castaways. He would have preferred to have control all to himself, of course; he'd always thought the world would have benefited with a single benevolent dictator, something he'd joked about with friends before, and he'd already considered that such a person -- namely him -- would be good for this much smaller world as well. But, he wasn't the type of man to force his leadership upon others without it being absolutely necessary.

So, Greg welcomed the injection of ideas from the In-Flight Service Manager, particularly when she told the others that he should be on the so-called Council regardless.

There was some agreement and disagreement as well. One of the passengers who spoke up with significant volume was Lance King. He had already made an impression on Greg in two ways thus far: first, upon initially awaking out on the runway, Lance had spent a bit too much time eying the belongings of the others, making Greg wonder if perhaps he wasn't contemplating stealing from the various bags and suitcases as they were hustled off the strip; and then -- because he'd noticed Greg noticing him and knew what the Air Marshall was already concluding about him -- he'd volunteered to help build the lean-to they were all now huddled under in an effort to look like a good guy.

In truth, Lance King was a thief and a conman. He wasn't like the other passengers on the plane: he hadn't won an all-expenses paid vacation to either Australia or Hawaii or D.C. but had instead stolen the identity of the person who had and, subsequently, taken the man's place on the plane. He wasn't supposed to be here on this island in a much different way than even the others weren't supposed to be here.

Still wanting to get on the Greg's good side, Lance called out over the rumble, "I think the Air Marshall should be in charge. I mean, on this council thing you're talking about. Listen, the man's a cop, basically, right? And he's got a gun. I mean, he's trained for stuff like this, right." He listened to some pro and con comments for a moment, then added, "I'm just saying, he's got my vote."

After some more discussion, Gail continued, saying she thought one of the Flight Crew should join the council. When jokes about stewardesses began, Greg growled his dislike for them at one of the instigators. Lance backed Greg, telling one man rather curtly, "Knock that shit off, man. How sexist."

Looking across to the sole male Flight Attendant, Lance nodded his acknowledgment of him. He wasn't entirely sure what to say regarding the stewardess jokes and comments, which had included both sexist jokes about women and gay jokes about men who entered a profession that had originated as a career for young, pretty women. Instead, Lance simply turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.

"And...!" Gail continued, "And I think we should have ... what, maybe 3 passengers on the Council."

She suggested that maybe a doctor be assigned to the council, and one raised his hand, saying, "I'm a surgeon."

"I should be on the council," Lance suddenly blurted out. When dozens of faces turned his way, he explained, "I'm perfect."

"Why?" someone blurted out with a tone of doubt.

"Well ... first ... I'm a lawyer," he told them. He saw some doubtful looks; most people didn't like lawyers, at least until they needed one. He continued, "What I mean is ... I have a law degree. I'm now a lawyer, really. I never practiced. But ... I understand the law."

Lance looked about for support but didn't see much. He continued, "I was, however, a lawyer for a large product distribution corporation. So ... I have experience with distributing. So ... I'm the perfect person for deciding how all of this--"

He gestured an extended finger animatedly at the stacks of airdropped packages, "--is shared between us." Lance thought that maybe a few of his fellow castaways were thinking positively about what he was saying. Still, he continued, "And finally ... I'm a hard worker." He gestured a finger upwards toward the tarp over their heads. "I helped set up out tent. And I helped bring in the packages--"

"We all did," someone reminded him.

"Yes, we did," Lance agreed. "I'm not saying I'm the only one who helped. I'm just saying that ... if you look at everything I have to offer ... I think I'm a good choice."

(OOC: My post continues in the next reply.)

 

[HumanBean]

(OOC: This post introduces minors to the story. They are vital to the story, as it revolves around the concept of creating a community. There will NEVER EVER EVER be any sort of erotic activity or sexual thinking involving characters who are <18 years of age. We, the writers, are absolutely dedicated to Literotica's rules regarding minors.)

Howard "Howie" Jacobs:

"What about us?" a young male voice called out from the crowd. "What do we get?"

The voice was coming from a teen standing amongst a group of the same; their ages ranged from 13 to 17. Even though there were 8 kids huddled around this particular outspoken teen, there were a total of 22 minors amongst the castaways, with most of the others currently standing near their respective family members.

Greg took a step out to emphasize that he was still part of the conversation. He asked the teen, "What is it that you want ... and ... sorry, but I don't know your name."

"Howie," the teen said. "Howard Jacobs." He glanced around him to the others, then answered, "We want a vote. None of this 18-years-or-older to vote bullshit." The others around him showed signs of agreement and support. He continued, "We're stuck here just like the rest of you. And we have to deal with this bullshit just like the rest of you. And we're pretty sure that whoever did this to us, they weren't our age; they were yours!"

There were more signs of agreement amongst his little pack. He went on boldly, "Not only do we want the vote ... we demand a position on the Council: one seat for a teenager ... a minor ... to be voted for only by minors ... and to have the same weight on the Council as any of you old folks."

By now the teens surrounding him had become more animated in their agreement with their leader. In fact, other teens around the group were showing signs of agreement, too.

Lance saw yet another opportunity. He'd been pretty good with kids in the past: he'd convinced plenty of them into thinking he was someone other than he truly was; and he'd convinced plenty of them into helping him with his cons against other adults, sometimes even their parents. If he could get on the good side of these kids, he might find himself in even a better position than being a member of the Council.

"I agree!" he called out. Again, faces turned his way. "I agree." He almost used the word kids as he continued but caught himself. "These fine young adults have just as much to be concerned about as any of us old folks. And I'm sure they are going to be called upon to contribute to our little community, just like the rest of us. So, why shouldn't they have a say in their future?"

Lance looked to Howard for his response. The teen nodded confirmation of what the adult had said. Around the group, though, there was a good deal of doubt on the faces of some of the old folks.

Greg took attention of Lance and Howard by taking back the conversation. "Listen, we can get into the details later. For right now, I think we need to start at the beginning. Do we establish a council or not? I think we should vote on it."

There were head nods and shakes as well as shrugs and murmurs. "We have to establish some form of leadership ... control ... government. So ... for now, until and if we decide on something different ... all those in favor of establishing a Council ... raise your hand."

The response was immediate amongst those who supported the idea; of the 115 castaways, about a third raised their hands immediately, with another third or so raising their hands slowly and, it seemed, sometimes reluctantly. Greg announced, "Okay, the vote for a Council passes. Next..."

Greg looked at Howard as he continued, "All in favor of the minors having a vote."

He wasn't surprised to see most of the teens stick their hands up high without hesitation. Some of the youngsters assembled with their own parents did the same, while others looked to those parents for guidance. More hands rose amongst them, too, until ultimately most of them were voting for the vote.

However, the number of adults who raised their hands in support of the minors was an obvious minority. Greg looked to Howard again with a solemn expression, revealing his own disappointment in the results.

But Lance stepped up again; his brain was always working fast and loose with ideas. He announced, "Hey, that's okay, though. The teens don't need the vote." He looked to Howard and his group and saw confusion; he'd supported them just a moment ago, and now he was turning on them? "Right? You don't need the vote."

But then, looking about the majority of old folks while he began a slow pace through the group, he said, "The teens don't need the vote. Just like they don't need to work hard to make this community work ... a community that doesn't respect them enough to give them a say in it."

He looked back to Howard, catching the teen's lips spreading in a knowing smirk. Lance continued, "They are young and energetic and strong and intuitive ... and forward and progressive thinking. But hey ... we don't have a need for that ... do we? I mean, it's not like young people have contributed anything to society in the past, right?"

Lance was on a roll, and he could see that -- although he didn't have universal support and probably wouldn't -- his words were beginning to make an impact. He went on with his lecture, "I mean, it's not like there might be a Greta Thunberg amongst these kids ... someone who has been outspoken enough to cause millions of people around the world to rethink their opinions about how we're treating this planet."

The greatest impact Lance was having thus far was with the teens about whom he was speaking. He needed to get to the parents and other adults, though, so he continued: "It's not like we have a Keiana Cavé ... who, after the Deepwater Horizon oil spill, discovered something that all of the adults in the world hadn't ... discovered how the oil spill was killing or physically deforming tens of thousands of sea creatures, from dolphins to shrimp. She wrote scientific papers ... got patents ... started a million dollar research organization ... while a teenager!"

Lance scanned the adults, not just looking for a change but sometimes glaring at them accusingly. It seemed to be working, maybe. He went on, "Or a Rifath Shaarook ... who worked with other teenagers around the world via video calls to create the world's smallest, lightest satellite and then put it into space to monitor temperature, magnetism, altitude, and more."

He was sort of talking out his ass regarding this last revolutionary teen. Everything Lance said was true, of course; he wouldn't lie about the great exploits of courageous teens. But he didn't honestly understand anything about Shaarook's work; he'd read it in a magazine during his wait at a doctor's office recently, and generally Lance recalled everything his eyes set upon.

He continued, speaking about four other teens who had made great advancements. And as he had, castaways began raising their hands, as if they'd been asked to vote yet again. By the time he finished, more than half of the 115 present had a hand in their air. Lance turned to look at Greg; his lips were wide with a proud smirk.

"Okay, so..." the Air Marshall began, "...those in favor of the minors having the vote?"

Even more hands rose, and soon, two out of three of adults -- and every teen -- was showing support for the universal vote. Greg announced, "Okay, that passes, too. Everyone gets the vote, regardless of age."

 

[PennySaver]

"I think the Air Marshall should be in charge," one of the male passengers said.

Gail recognized him as passenger, Lance King. She didn't know much about him. She'd quizzed the passengers earlier and learned they'd all won some sort of all-expenses paid vacation. Lance had told her a similar story. Gail had had no reason to doubt him. She certainly wouldn't have suspected everything about his story was fake.

She agreed with Lance's support of Greg. Gail had faith in the Air Marshall's ability to lead. All of the Flight Attendants did. The youngest of them, Eloise, particularly did.

Gail was taking a liking to Lance. That only doubled when he chastised some passenger for making a dirty joke about stewardesses.

Lance surprised her a bit when he suddenly blurted out, "I should be on the council. I'm perfect."

Gail listened to the man spell out his qualifications. They didn't particularly impress her. She knew how to spot a man out to satisfy his own best interests. Still, standing up for the teens impressed her enough that she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Greg caught Gail's attention next. He called for a vote on the Council. It passed by maybe 2 to 1. Then he called for a vote on letting the teens vote. That didn't go as smoothly. But Lance jumped in again. And that was that.

She couldn't help but smile at the results. Greg and Lance together were very effective. Gail was torn about them both being on the Council. Between them, they'd be running this place in no time at all. That could be very good or very bad.

It was her turn to speak up again. She stepped out to get attention just as Greg had. "I nominate Air Marshall Greg Hamilton for a seat on the Council," she said. She wanted to get right to the point.

"I second that," Eloise said with great enthusiasm. She threw her hand into the air, saying, "Those in favor?"

The vote for Greg went better than either of the previous ones. The vast majority of the castaways voted for him without hesitation. Again, Gail smiled with delight. She decided to push her luck. "And the doctor...?"

She put her hand up. Eloise did the same. And, again, so did most of the others. This was going well. There was one last priority for her. She looked directly at Howard as she talked to the larger group. "We already decided that the teens get to vote ... but I think even more than that, they need thee vote ... as in a seat on the Council."

She looked to Greg, Lance, and then others surrounding her. She stuck her hand up without actually asking for a vote.

 

[HumanBean]

Greg was as surprised with Lance volunteering himself to be on the council as Gail was. His first impression of the guy was that he was shady. Ironically -- though he didn't know it yet -- Lance most certainly was. But the man was right out front, helping Greg and Gail establish a Council with members that Greg himself thought could be good for the group.

Soon, Gail nominated him for the council, and the vote was overwhelmingly positive. Then she suggested the doctor, and again she got what she wanted. Then -- pushing the situation, as she herself was thinking -- Gail suggested that the teens be represented. She didn't even wait for a decision about whether there was going to be a vote and instead stuck her hand up in the air expectantly. Eloise did the same, as did Lance, the Doctor, and nearly ever minor Greg could catch sight of. About half of the adults raised their hands, though, in some cases, Greg thought he sensed a bit of reluctance and possibly peer pressure.

But it was a majority, and Greg announced, "Okay, the teens have a seat." He looked to Howard. "I'm presuming you're that representative?"

"Not sure," Howard said without hesitation. "I wouldn't expect to speak for my people simply because I was the first to speak up." He looked around his posse, then to some of the other minors. Looking back to Greg, Howard asked, "Can you give us some time to get together and take our own vote."

"Of course," Greg agreed. Scanning the group again as he talked and gesturing to the people about whom he was speaking, he reviewed, "So, for now, the Council will consist of myself ... In-Flight Service Manager, Gail Peters ... Doctor ... oh, I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Patel," the surgeon answered. "Ethan Patel, M.D."

Greg continued, "Doctor Patel..." He looked to Howard again, continuing, "A representative from the teens T.B.D..."

One of the older adults asked, "What's T.B.D.?"

Almost simultaneously, many of the social media savvy teens answered as one, "To be determined."

Greg almost laughed; he was thinking, We need these kids. They're the only ones who can interpret the world for us anymore. He went on, "And I think it would be wise for us to have a 5th voice, in the case of the need to break--"

"I nominate myself," Peter piped up energetically. He looked to Greg for some reaction, then asked, "Can I do that?"

Greg only shrugged. The self-nomination turned out to be unnecessary, though, as Howard quickly nominated the man who had so very much made the case for the teens' seat on the Council, and just as quickly several of the teens called out, "Seconded."

"Vote...?" Greg asked the crowd. Hands rose at differing speeds, but in the end there were enough hands up for Greg to announce, "And the fifth member of the Council will be Peter Kimball. Congratulations, one and all."

He was surprised to see and hear a tepid round of applause; the surprise was about the hesitant sense of it but that there had been applause at all. Greg got to business immediately, telling the group, "Okay, before we -- the members of the council -- get together to talk about serious issues, might I make one suggestion on my own."

He looked out beyond the lean-to, to where the rain had stopped during their establishment of a government, and said, "There was one pallet dropped by the plane that included a couple of cases marked Housing. Might I suggest that we retrieve those cases, see what's in them, and -- if possible -- set up some tents or covers or whatever's in them?" He looked above him to the lean-to, adding, "This tarp isn't large enough for all of us and the freight, obviously."

There wasn't any opposition to his suggestion. Greg asked for a dozen volunteers to retrieve the cases, and nearly twice that many men and women -- and even a few teens -- headed out toward the airstrip without hesitation. Under the lean-to, Peter got together with Gail, the Doctor, and Howard -- the presumed future Council Member -- and organized a team to better stack the cases, boxes, bags, and more that had already been brought in out of the rain.

Greg was more than tickled when they opened one of the cases marked Housing and saw what was inside: military grade, self-erecting multi-occupant tents. The tents came in a disk-shaped outer package about 4 feet across and 8 inches deep. One had only to pull the tent out of the outer package and stand back; the heavy duty, flexible poles would then expand the round-packed tent into its actual shape, which was hemispherical, about 8 feet in diameter and 6 feet tall. Unzipping the door and stepping inside one, Greg found a package with small but heavy hammer, stakes to be pounded in by said hammer, a tightly bound bundle of synthetic rope should more than staking be required, a small knife for cutting said rope as needed, and instructions for not only setting up the tent but for tying a couple of dozen knots that may or may not ever be needed.

The excitement was high amongst those bringing the tents in. Not everyone was as tickled as Greg, though, with some of the castaways realizing that for an undetermined amount of time, they would be camping 24/7. One man made a comment about his bad back. Doctor Patel overheard him and spoke to the group as a whole, "There are a number of ways that we can use the resources we will certainly find around us to make everyone comfortable. We will persevere, I promise you."

"Where are we supposed to be setting all of these up?" one of the women asked. She looked around at the cleared area between the runway and the woods. "I mean, the ground isn't, you know, like a fee-pay campground. It isn't smooth."

She was right. Whoever had prepared the airstrip had done very little in preparing the land adjacent to it for the erection of dozens of tents; trees had been bulldozed, leaving deep tracks and crushed trunks scattered all about. Even the spot they'd chosen for the lean-to had been a bit rough and had needed some clean up.

"We'll just have to make do for now," Greg called out as people began expanding their tents, only to realize there was no place to put them. "Please, be careful with your structures. They seem to be high quality, well made, but if you snag them on a root or limb or sharp rock, you're going to be sleeping in the rain again."

"We have tools," Lance called out. Greg turned to see the man holding up a shovel and garden pick; he'd found one of the boxes labeled Hand tools and opened it up. He explained, "We can dig out places for the tents. Come on, anyone who can handle a shovel, grab one and let's get started before it rains again."

Soon, there were a couple of dozen men, women, and teens clearing the land. Some people stayed in close to the lean-to; others searched for more easily cleared locations a bit farther out; and still others went into the forest to find an untouched area that also might provide more privacy. Wherever they worked, soon enough tents were being raised and staked down.

 

[HumanBean]

Greg called together the other Council members -- including Howard -- to talk about other issues. They spoke about the need for a central kitchen. "We can't all be cooking on our own. It's inefficient," Greg said. Doctor Patel added, "And we don't know that everyone is getting the proper nutrition. Eating together as a community is best."

They spoke about a need for an outhouse, too. Already, people had been wandering off into the rainforest to deal with that need. Again, it was the Doctor who pointed out, "The quickest way for us to find ourselves dealing with disease is for our excrement to come back to haunt us in any number of ways."

The need for work assignments came up after several community project ideas came up. It was obvious that each castaway was going to have to contribute in one way or another; it was just as obvious that some of the jobs that needed to be done were jobs in which few of the castaways were going to want to partake.

"We create the work list," Greg said. "We draw names to initially assign specific people to specific tasks."

"You can trade duties if you can find someone to trade with," Howard offered. He explained, "Some people aren't going to want to dig a well but will be more than willing to cook meals and vise versa."

"Also, some people aren't going to be physically capable to do what's been assigned to them," Patel added. "We should determine a way to limit who gets assigned to what."

One of the women offered, "And some people are going to be more skilled at one thing or another. I was talking to a passenger who ran a charity food kitchen. She fed almost 800 people a day, some of them homeless, some simply down on their luck ... families, often."

They continued talking on a multitude of issues, and as they did, many of the other castaways were bringing in the rest of the supplies that had been airdropped to them. A trio of passengers approached the Council with concerned looks. One of them pointed out that the stuff that had been dropped to them spelled out one undeniable message: "We shouldn't expect to leave here anytime soon, right?"

Greg had already determined that to be true, too, but still he asked, "Why do you say that?"

Between them, the trio pointed out that the supplies and resources that had been dropped were meant to be used to build and maintain a lasting community: military-grade tents, land clearing and gardening tools, seeds for vegetable gardens, bare root berry and tree starts, and all of the basic requirements to construct more lasting, permanent buildings.

"I mean, it's not like we were dropped steel girders and bags of concrete mix," one of the passengers said, "but what we do have now ... well, it's meant to help us build ... I dunno, an entire, functioning village."

"And there's more," one of the female passengers said. "We've been talking around." She looked at Gail and Marla Stein, one of the other Flight Attendants, both of whom had already been speaking about this issue. "We've been talking about what we all did out in the world. And I ... I don't really know how to explain this ... but it's like we have anyone and everyone here to create a lasting, thriving community. We have doctors and nurses ... grade school teachers and university professors ... all sorts of people who worked construction--"

One of the other chimed in, "Farmers, ranchers. We've got a guy who makes his own lumber. I mean, cuts down trees, splits them into beams, and makes cabins and traditional structures--"

The third added with an ironic tone, "And it's a total coincidence that we were delivered all of the tools necessary to cut down trees and split them into beams...?"

"What are you saying?" Greg asked. He knew what the answer was going to be because he -- along with Gail, Marla, and some of the others -- had already come to the same conclusion.

"I think we were chosen to be here," the passenger said. "I don't think this is coincidence at all."

"We were chosen," the second passenger cut in. "All of us. Or, at the least, most of us."

And the first tuned in again, "Someone arranged all of this ... to ensure that we survived here ... wherever here is--"

"Not just survive," Greg corrected. He looked around to the others, and he saw what he was thinking in their faces, too. He looked off at the tents, the lean-to, and the supplies gathered beneath it, and said, "We have been given all of this to ensure that we thrive here."

Someone asked, "But why? What the fuck is this all about?"

"Survivor," someone offered. "I'm serious. This is like a real life version of survivor. Someone has put us on this island ... a group of people with varied abilities and skills and backgrounds ... and they've given us what we need to survive or thrive or whatever you want to call it ... and now it's up to us to make it work ... for as long as they leave us here."

"Forever?" someone asked.

Greg had wondered about this also. He looked to Patel knowingly, then nodded. As the man dug into a heavy duty container marked Medical, Greg told the others, "The Doctor found this while he was looking through what we thought were first aid supplies."

Patel held up a couple of small packages. He explained as he indicated one package after another, "These are pregnancy tests. And these ... they're vitamin and nutritional supplements ... for women to take during pregnancy ... and for children to take during infancy."

The expressions on the faces of most listening in were varied, but it was obvious that most understood the implications. The Doctor said the obvious: "They mean for us to be here long enough to conceive, birth, and raise children."

 

[PennySaver]

(OOC: For anyone following our story, we changed the specialty of the Doctor from surgeon to obstetrician.)

Gail and Eloise both recognized the over-the-counter tests the moment the Doctor flashed one to the group. Each of them had had a pregnancy scare in their past. Eloise had had just the one lover. And yet she'd had six scares. Carl had often taken chances with her.

"What's the worst that could happen?" he'd ask her again and again. "You get Plan B and make it go away."

He'd had no clue about human reproduction beyond getting his balls off while deep in a pussy.

The Doctor told them, "They mean for us to be here long enough to conceive, birth, and raise children."

"That's insane," Gail said. "What the fuck's this all about? I mean ... do we know anything at all? Who did this to us? Why?"

Eloise stepped closer to the Doctor as the others talked. She was trying to be inconspicuous. She whispered, "Is there birth control in there, too?"

Behind her, Gail was still questioning what was happening. "Why us? Why these people? I mean, it seems pretty obvious that we were specifically chosen. The diversity of skills, of life and career experiences ... what's that word ... vocations? I mean, from what I can tell, we have just about every job covered to make sure we survive here ... or thrive, as one of you said.

"And look at the ages, particularly of the women," Gail continued. She looked around at the castaways. "They're almost all of child-bearing age ... 20s, 30s ... a few in their 40s. Still not too late to bear children safely, right, Doc?"

"Not too late," Patel said, adding, "particularly if you have an obstetrician on hand whose specialty over the last two decades was risky pregnancies and deliveries."

The female passenger, Carla Paulson, who'd joined the conversation offered something the others hadn't known yet. "By the way, I'm a medically certified midwife." All eyes turned to her. There was a great deal of surprise that she was only revealing this. She smiled, chuckled, and said, "Sorry. Thought you already knew that."

"What the fuck?" Gail murmured. She looked to Greg. A thought was building. "What if ... what if this is some sort of test. What if ... maybe ... we've been put here like this ... to see if a small group of diverse people can, in fact, survive ... and thrive. Maybe ... maybe there are little communities like ours on little islands all around the world ... different sizes ... more, less, the same ... all as an experiment to see how many people it would take to survive."

"By why wouldn't they ask people to do it?" Carla asked. "I mean, they do this kind of stuff all the time right? I mean, NASA has people in sealed domes, practicing for Mars, right? Maybe this is kind of like that?"

"This isn't Mars, Carla," Gail pointed out. She looked to Greg. "So ... if they aren't practicing for Mars ... what are they practicing for?"

 

[HumanBean]

More from Doctor Ethan Patel:

To Eloise's quietly asked question about whether or not the boxes of medical supplies included birth control, Doctor Patel shrugged his shoulders. He could see that she preferred not to advertise her inquiry to the others, so he just as quietly answered, "I haven't seen anything yet. But there are still many boxes and crates yet to be opened. Perhaps."

He wondered just how many other female castaways would have that question in the near future. Any of them interested in intercourse but not interested in becoming pregnant would have to face this issue eventually; even those who had long term implants would one day have to deal with the expiration of their chosen birth control.

The conversation shifted to why these particular castaways had been chosen to be here at this time and what the reason for it was. Patel had to chuckle at the whole Mars concept; he'd once interviewed for and been accepted to participate in NASA's astronaut program but, in the end, had withdrawn from consideration because he'd found love here on Earth and didn't want to go to space, the Moon, or Mars without his soul mate, Doris Parker.

It was ironic then that this great love affair of his had turned out to be a horrific bust. The two of them had come to Australia on vacation -- a contest prize, like with so many other castaways -- and while here discovered that they just weren't meant to be. The night before they boarded Flight 1122 for the return to Honolulu, they'd fought at dinner and gone different directions afterward; Ethan had returned to their shared hotel room to cool down, whereas Doris had met a handsome, rugged, buff Australian Rules Football player in a bar and returned with him to his room to spend the night sucking and fucking and sucking again. They hadn't said a word to one another since, and Ethan had even paid over a thousand US dollars to get an upgraded seat to avoid having to even look at her.

"This isn't Mars, Carla," Gail said about the other woman's speculation about why this was happening to them. Gail looked to the Air Marshall and asked, "So ... if they aren't practicing for Mars ... what are they practicing for?"

Greg only shrugged. He knew it wasn't much of a confidence ensuring boost to react that way, but he simply didn't have an answer to what was happening to them. He did finally say, "I don't think we have any choice at the moment but to assume that we're going to be here for a long time, and we need to prepare for that. We need to fully inventory what was included in that airdrop--"

"Do we expect more of them?" Ethan asked.

Greg shrugged again, then said, "I think we have to work on the assumption that there won't be. We need to plan for the consumption of what we have now. We need to plan for feeding us long term once the food we have runs out. We need to build long term shelters that will protect us better than these tents, which are nice, I'll hand you that, but which won't stand up to a hurricane. Cyclone, sorry. I forgot it was the Atlantic."

(OOC: I was going to write more, but I'm exhausted. Penny, if you want to post before I do so again, feel free.)

 

[HumanBean]

Greg had been occasionally glancing past those with whom he was talking to study the greater population of castaways as they were unboxing and distributing the tents. There was obviously a problem.

He headed over to where the tent pallet was being broken down and discovered just what he'd expected: too many people, not enough tents.

"Listen up!" Greg called out. "Will everyone please gather around...? Everyone ... please ... come this way."

He stood atop a heavy-duty cargo container, pulled out his copy of the passenger manifest, and began a monologue that he knew was not going to go over well with many of the castaways.

"So, I'm told there are only 30 tents," he began. He held up the papers in his hand. "This is the passenger manifest. It lists all of you by seat number ... but more importantly than that, it lists you by your association with other passengers ... meaning, if you are part of a family unit ... or if you were flying with another person, such as a spouse or other significant other.

"I've looked over the list just well enough to know that there are about 25 family units and/or couples amongst us," he continued. He looked to his fellow and recently elected leaders -- all four of them were standing fairly close to each other on his left -- as he continued, "So, unless my fellow Council Members feel we need to vote on this..."

Greg returned to scanning the castaways as he continued, "...my suggestion to handle the too many people, not enough tents issue is simple: one tent for each family group; then, one tent for each group of more than two individuals; then, if we still have enough tents left, one tent for each couple--"

"What if there aren't enough tents at that point?" someone called out.

"Well, couples will have to double up," Greg said. There was obvious and audible dislike for that, and Greg understood why: despite being abandoned on a deserted isle, some of these couples were still going to want to sleep together and have sex with one another at night, and that was a bit awkward when another couple you didn't know was sleeping just 5 feet away from you. Greg went on, "The manifest shows that we also have some people who were traveling alone. For them, we'll have a male tent and a female tent."

There was more grumbling. Greg just shrugged his shoulders. "Think of it like being at camp when you were a kid."

There was general disagreement with the situation, and some families that had taken a tent for the parents and another for the kids weren't happy about having to give one up. One family expressed dismay at having to put all 9 members of their group in one tent: the mother, the father, the mother's adult sister, and the couple's 6 children, ages 6 to 18. Greg told them if a second tent could be made available for them, the Council would try to see that done.

"Listen, this is something we need to get down right now," Greg told them. He pointed off to the horizon again, pointing out the blackness that was nearing them. "We're going to have another downpour. We need to get the tents erected and secured now ... and we can deal with the issue of fair housing afterward."