Elias ran without looking back, though the whisper still scratched at his ears. It wasn't a human voice, not entirely. It was like the island itself was murmuring, mocking him. His boots sank into the soft earth, broken branches crunching under his weight. He didn't know where he was going, only that stopping wasn't an option. Not after what he'd seen. Not after what he'd felt.
The forest grew denser, the trees crowding together as if they wanted to trap him. The darkness was a weight, but his eyes were starting to adjust, catching glints of moss on rocks, of vines hanging like ropes. His mind raced, searching for patterns, for something useful. He'd learned to survive before—not on a cursed island, sure, but in life. And if he knew anything, it was that panic kills faster than any knife.
The ground dropped suddenly, and Elias stumbled, rolling down a slope covered in rotten leaves. He landed with a grunt, the rusty knife still in his hand, miraculously uncut. He stayed still, listening. Nothing. No growls, no footsteps, no that damned whisper. Just his breathing, fast and ragged.
He stood, spitting dirt. In front of him, a rock wall rose, covered in vines. There was a crack in the stone, wide enough to slip through sideways. A cave. It wasn't a five-star hotel, but it was better than staying out in the open with… whatever lived on this island.
Elias approached, knife first. The air coming from the crack was cold, damp, with a moldy smell he didn't like at all. But staying outside was worse. He slid inside, scraping his shoulders against the rock. The cave was bigger than he expected, the ceiling high and full of stalactites dripping water. The moonlight barely reached inside, but it was enough to see it was empty. Or so he hoped.
He slumped against the wall, panting. For the first time in hours, he let himself think beyond running. He was alive. Bruised, thirsty, but alive. And if he wanted to stay that way, he needed a plan. Water. Food. A place to rest without getting gutted. This cave could be a start, but he had to make it his.
First, the entrance. If that thing—or things—followed him, he couldn't leave it open like an invitation. He searched around, his hands feeling in the dimness. He found dry branches and loose stones outside the cave. With effort, he piled the stones at the entrance, leaving only a small gap to crawl through. Then he wove the branches with vines, making a kind of crude curtain. It wouldn't stop a determined lunatic, but it would slow them down. And in a fight, every second counts.
Satisfied, he sat inside, checking what he had: a rusty knife, wet clothes, and a brain that still worked. Not much, but he'd worked with less. Next was food. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since… how long? A day? Two? Time was a blur.
He went out carefully, making sure nothing was lurking. The moon was still high, bathing the forest in a sickly gray. Elias moved slowly, looking for plants, anything that seemed edible. He found some broad leaves, dark green, with jagged edges. He pulled them off and sniffed. Bitter, with a sharp tang. Bad news: probably poisonous. But then he remembered something.
María. His ex-wife. She used to talk about plants while she cooked, her hands moving like they danced over the stove. "Not everything that smells bad kills you," she'd say, laughing, as she chopped herbs Elias couldn't pronounce. "Some just need a little love." She'd taught him a trick: boil certain bitter leaves to draw out the poison, let them dry, and crush them. It wasn't a feast, but it filled the stomach.
Elias half-smiled, a knot in his chest. María had been the best cook he knew, able to turn scraps into dishes that made the soul sing. But he wasn't María. And he had no pot, no fire, no damn time. Still, he tore off more leaves, tucking them into his shirt. He also found some red berries, small and hard. He crushed them with a rock, smelling the juice. Sweet, but not too much. They might be safe. Or not. He decided to risk one, chewing slowly. The taste was sour, but it didn't burn his tongue. For now, he was fine.
He returned to the cave, carrying his haul. Without a fire, he couldn't boil the leaves, but he mashed them against a smooth rock, squeezing out the bitter juice until they were almost dry. He tried them cautiously, spitting at first from the taste, but swallowed a bit. He didn't die on the spot, so that was something.
The hunger was still there, but now he had a plan. María always said surviving was about small steps. "Don't think about tomorrow's hunger," she'd tell him, "just today's bite." Elias hadn't understood how deep that was back then. But now, on this hellish island, he saw it clearly.
Next was making the cave livable. He used the knife to cut more vines outside, weaving them into a kind of mat so he wouldn't sleep on cold rock. He piled more stones inside, forming a nook to hide in if something came in. He found a small pool at the back of the cave, stagnant water but clean, or clean enough not to kill him. He drank with his hands, the cold soothing his parched throat.
For the first time, he felt a hint of control. He wasn't safe, not by a long shot, but he had a shelter. A knife. Something to eat. It was more than he had an hour ago.
Then he heard it. A crunch outside, slow, deliberate. Not like the wind. Not like an animal. Elias froze, knife in hand, eyes fixed on the entrance. The branch curtain trembled, just a little, as if something brushed it. He held his breath, his heart slamming against his ribs.
Silence. Then another crunch, closer. And something worse. A smell. That same sweet, rotten stench from the camp, but stronger, more alive. Elias gripped the knife, backing toward the cave's depths. The curtain moved again, and a bony hand, covered in dried blood, pushed the branches aside.