"Shipwreck at Sentinel":
I was a deckhand on the Primrose, a rusty old freighter hauling cargo from Hong Kong across the Bay of Bengal. It was August 1981, and we’d been at sea for over a week, the engine’s drone and the creak of the ship’s hull lulling us into a routine. I was in the mess hall, nursing a cup of bitter coffee, the metal table cool under my elbows. Tommy, a wiry kid new to the crew, was across from me, joking about how he’d spend his pay at the next port. Big John, the first mate, sat nearby, flipping through a tattered magazine. Then the ship lurched violently. My coffee spilled, scalding my hand. Plates and cups crashed to the floor, and a deep, grinding screech tore through the air, like metal claws raking the hull.
“Reef!” the captain’s voice boomed over the intercom. “All hands to stations! We’re grounded!” His words were sharp, urgent. I stumbled to my feet, heart racing, and followed Tommy and Big John to the deck. The ship was tilted, leaning hard to starboard, waves slapping against the hull. The horizon was off-kilter, and in the distance, I saw land—a small island, its shore lined with white sand and a wall of dense, dark jungle that seemed to swallow the light.
“What’s that place?” I asked, gripping the railing to steady myself. The metal was cold, slick with spray.
Big John lifted his binoculars, his thick fingers trembling as he focused. He lowered them slowly, his face pale. “North Sentinel Island,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Home to the Sentinelese. Uncontacted tribe. They don’t take kindly to outsiders.”
“Who are they?” Tommy asked, his eyes wide, his usual grin gone.
“People who’ve lived there for thousands of years,” Big John said. “No one’s ever made contact without trouble. They’ll kill to protect their island. Arrows, spears, stones. The Indian government forbids anyone from getting within three miles.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. We weren’t three miles away. The island was close—too close—maybe a hundred yards, the reef holding us like a trap. The jungle stared back, its tangled vines and towering trees hiding whatever lived inside. My skin prickled, like the island itself was watching us.
The captain, a grizzled man with gray stubble and tired eyes, gathered us on deck. “Radio’s down,” he said, his voice tight. “Water got into the wiring when we hit the reef. We’re stuck until we fix it or someone finds us. Check the equipment, secure the deck, and keep your eyes on that island. Don’t do anything to provoke them.”
“Provoke who?” Tommy asked, his voice shaking.
“The Sentinelese,” the captain said. “If they come, stay low. Don’t shout, don’t wave. We don’t want a fight we can’t win.”
We scattered, checking the ship. I helped Tommy inspect the radio room, but the equipment was a mess—wires frayed, panels sparking, soaked from a leak in the hull. “This is useless,” Tommy muttered, tossing a screwdriver onto the table. “We’re cut off.”
“Keep trying,” I said, but my hands were shaking too. Every creak of the ship made me jump, expecting something—someone—to appear.
By late afternoon, they came. I was on deck, coiling ropes to keep busy, when Big John grabbed my arm. “Look,” he whispered, pointing to the shore. Figures emerged from the jungle, stepping onto the beach. They were small, maybe five feet tall, with dark skin glistening in the light. Their hair was wild, matted, and their bodies were streaked with red and white paint, like war markings. They carried bows strung with taut strings, arrows with sharp stone tips, and spears carved from wood. Some held stone axes, their edges glinting. I counted at least twenty, maybe thirty, standing in a line, staring at us. Their eyes were hard, unblinking, like they were measuring us.
“They see us,” Tommy said, his voice barely audible. He gripped a coil of rope like it could protect him.
“Don’t move,” Big John hissed. “Don’t even breathe loud.”
The captain joined us, his binoculars pressed to his face. “They’re not moving yet,” he said. “But they’re watching. Get anything you can use—pipes, tools, anything heavy. Keep it out of sight. We don’t show weapons unless we have to.”
We rummaged below deck, grabbing what we could. I found a heavy steel wrench, its weight reassuring but useless against arrows. Tommy clutched a length of pipe, his hands trembling so bad he nearly dropped it. Big John carried a fire axe, his face set like he was ready for war. My stomach churned as I imagined those arrows flying, piercing skin, the pain of a stone-tipped spear.
That night, we took shifts watching the shore. I stood on deck with Tommy, the darkness thick around us, the only light from our ship’s dim lanterns. The island was a black silhouette, but then I heard it—a low, rhythmic chant, rising and falling like a pulse. My skin crawled. I squinted and saw flickers of fire on the beach, shadows of figures moving, maybe dancing, maybe preparing. The chant grew louder, a strange, guttural sound that made my chest tight.
“They’re still there,” I whispered to Tommy, my voice shaking.
“What are they doing?” he asked, his eyes wide in the dark.
“Warning us,” Big John said, joining us. “They’ve killed before. Fishermen, explorers, anyone who gets too close. They don’t want us here.”
I gripped my wrench tighter, my palms sweaty. “What if they come for us?”
“We hold them off,” Big John said, but his voice lacked conviction. “We just need to last until help comes.”
The next morning, the situation worsened. I woke to shouts from the deck. “Canoes!” someone yelled. I ran up, my heart pounding, and saw them—small wooden boats, each carrying three or four Sentinelese, paddling toward us. Their shouts carried over the water, sharp and angry, in a language that sounded like nothing I’d ever heard. One man stood in the lead canoe, his body painted red from head to toe, waving a spear. His eyes locked on us, fierce and unyielding. An arrow shot from another canoe, whistling through the air and embedding in the ship’s railing with a sharp thud.
“Get down!” the captain shouted. We dropped behind the railing, my knees hitting the deck hard. Another arrow struck, splintering wood nearby. I peeked over the edge, my breath ragged. The canoes were closer now, maybe fifty yards out, circling like sharks.
“They’re going to attack,” Tommy said, his voice high with panic. “They’re going to kill us!”
“Shut up and stay low,” Big John snapped. “They’re testing us.”
“Testing us?” I said, my voice cracking. “That arrow wasn’t a test!”
“They want us scared,” the captain said, crouching beside us. “They want us to know we’re not welcome. Keep your heads down and don’t give them a reason to come closer.”
The canoes circled all day, never close enough to board but never far enough to let us breathe easy. Each shout, each arrow that hit the ship, sent a jolt of fear through me. I kept imagining them climbing the hull, their painted faces appearing over the railing, spears raised. We tried the radio again, tearing apart panels, splicing wires, but it was hopeless. The equipment was dead, and we were alone.
That evening, the captain gathered us in the mess hall. His face was haggard, eyes sunken from lack of sleep. “We’ve sent a distress signal before the radio died,” he said. “Someone will notice we’re missing. We just need to hold out.”
“How long?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“Days, maybe,” he said, looking away. “Just stay sharp. No one goes on deck alone.”
Tommy leaned close to me, his breath shaky. “What if they come at night? We can’t see them in the dark.”
“Don’t think about it,” I said, but I was thinking the same thing. The jungle, the chants, the arrows—it all felt like a nightmare we couldn’t wake from.
By the third day, I was a wreck. My eyes burned from staying awake, my body ached from crouching and hiding. The Sentinelese hadn’t stopped. More canoes appeared, maybe twelve now, and on the beach, they were building rafts—bigger ones, lashed together with vines and branches. I watched through binoculars, my hands trembling, as they worked with purpose, their movements quick and precise.
“They’re planning something,” Big John said, his voice grim. “Those rafts aren’t for fishing. They’re coming for us.”
“What do we do?” Tommy asked, his face pale. “We can’t fight them all.”
“We don’t,” the captain said. “We make it hard for them to board. Block the ladders, secure the hatches. If they try, we push them back.”
We spent the day fortifying the ship, dragging crates and barrels to block access points. My arms ached, but the work kept my mind off the rafts. At sunset, the chanting started again, louder, more urgent. I stood watch with Big John, the sky darkening, the fires on the beach glowing brighter. The rafts were nearly done, stacked on the shore, ready to launch.
“They’ll come at dawn,” Big John said, his voice low. “They’re waiting for light.”
I didn’t sleep that night. None of us did. We sat on deck, clutching our makeshift weapons, listening to the chants, the rhythmic slap of waves, the occasional shout from the island. My heart pounded so hard I felt it in my throat. I kept seeing those painted faces in my mind, their eyes burning with anger, their arrows aimed at us.
On the fourth day, I woke to a new sound—not chants, but a distant thump, growing louder. I stumbled to the deck, my legs weak, and saw a speck in the sky. A helicopter. The Indian Coast Guard. “They’re here!” I shouted, my voice raw. The crew cheered, weak and ragged, as the chopper approached, its rotors deafening.
The Sentinelese saw it too. Their canoes stopped circling, and they paddled back to shore, shouting louder, angrier. Arrows flew toward the helicopter, arcing through the air but falling short, splashing into the sea. The chopper hovered above us, a rope ladder dropping down. We scrambled up, one by one, the wind from the blades whipping our clothes, stinging our faces.
I was last. As I grabbed the ladder, my hands slippery with sweat, I looked back at the island. The Sentinelese lined the beach, waving spears, their faces contorted with rage. The jungle behind them seemed alive, its shadows shifting, like it was part of their defiance. An arrow shot past, grazing the ladder, and I climbed faster, my heart in my throat.
In the helicopter, we collapsed, breathless, staring at each other in silence. The island shrank below, the Primrose a broken relic on the reef. The jungle loomed, vast and impenetrable, hiding the Sentinelese and their secrets. We’d escaped, but the fear clung to me, heavy as the wrench I’d dropped. Those faces, those chants, the island itself—it felt like a warning etched into my bones. North Sentinel didn’t want us, and it made sure we’d never forget. Even now, I see that beach in my dreams, the painted figures watching, waiting, as the jungle swallows the light.
"Skulls in the Sand":
I’d always been obsessed with the edges of the world, places where civilization hadn’t left its mark. As a journalist, I’d built a career chasing stories that made people stop and think—tales of forgotten tribes, hidden cultures. North Sentinel Island was the ultimate challenge. A tiny, jungle-choked island in the Bay of Bengal, home to the Sentinelese, a tribe that’s rejected the outside world for thousands of years. I’d read about fishermen who drifted too close, their boats attacked, their bodies left on the shore as warnings. The Indian government banned all contact, but that only fueled my need to see it for myself. Not to meet them, just to capture their existence from a safe distance. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I found two local boatmen in Port Blair, Anil and Deepak, who agreed to take me near the island. It took days of convincing and a stack of cash to overcome their hesitation. They knew the stories—everyone in the Andamans did. The Sentinelese didn’t negotiate. They didn’t warn. They killed. But I was stubborn, maybe arrogant, and I thought I could stay out of their reach.
We set out in a small, weathered fishing boat, its paint chipped from years at sea. My backpack held a notebook, a camera with a long lens, and a pair of binoculars. Anil sat at the bow, scanning the horizon, his jaw tight. Deepak steered, his hands gripping the wheel like he was holding onto his own courage. The sea was calm, the air thick with salt and silence. I tried to break the tension.
“How far is it?” I asked, adjusting my camera strap.
“Too far and not far enough,” Anil muttered, not looking at me. “You sure about this? Last chance to turn back.”
“I’m sure,” I said, though my stomach twisted. “We’re not landing. Just getting close enough for a few shots.”
Deepak snorted. “Close enough is too close with them. You read about those fishermen? Two of them, 2006. Washed up too near the island. The Sentinelese didn’t even let their bodies be taken back.”
I nodded, pretending I wasn’t rattled. I’d read about it—two men killed, their bodies tied to stakes on the beach. A helicopter sent to retrieve them was driven off by arrows. But that was years ago, and we’d be careful. I kept telling myself that.
As we approached, the island came into view, a dark mass of jungle rising from the sea. It looked untouched, ancient, like something out of a forgotten world. The shoreline was fringed with white sand, but beyond that, the trees were so dense they seemed to swallow the light. I raised my binoculars, my hands unsteady, and scanned the beach. That’s when I saw them—poles driven into the sand, each topped with what looked like skulls. Some were weathered, barely recognizable, but others seemed fresher, their shapes too human for comfort. My breath caught.
“Did you see those?” I whispered.
Anil nodded, his face grim. “Told you. They don’t play games. Those are warnings.”
“We’re not landing,” I repeated, more to myself than to him. “We’ll stay far enough out.”
Deepak shook his head. “Far enough doesn’t exist here. They’ve got bows that can hit a boat half a kilometer away.”
I swallowed hard but set up my camera anyway, adjusting the lens to zoom in on the shore. The jungle was silent, no birds, no rustling leaves—just an oppressive stillness that made my skin crawl. We drifted, the engine off to avoid drawing attention. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. I kept my eyes glued to the viewfinder, searching for any sign of life.
Then, a faint sound broke the quiet—a low, rhythmic thumping, like drums echoing through the trees. My heart lurched. “Do you hear that?” I asked, lowering the camera.
Anil’s eyes widened. “That’s them. They know we’re here.”
“We should go,” Deepak said, his voice sharp. “Now.”
“Just a minute,” I said, my voice trembling. “I need something for the story.”
Before they could argue, a figure stepped from the jungle onto the beach. He was tall, his body lean and muscular, his skin painted with white streaks that made him look otherworldly. Another figure joined him, then another, until a dozen men stood in a line, each holding a bow or a spear. They didn’t move, didn’t shout—just stared at us, their eyes dark and unblinking.
“They see us,” Deepak whispered, his hands fumbling for the engine’s pull cord. “We’re too close.”
I couldn’t look away. My camera was up again, my finger trembling on the shutter. I zoomed in, catching the details—the intricate patterns of paint on their faces, the taut strings of their bows, the sharp tips of their spears. They were beautiful and terrifying, like warriors from a time before history.
An arrow cut through the air, landing in the water just feet from the boat. The splash jolted me. Another followed, then a third, one striking the hull with a dull thunk. I froze, my camera slipping from my hands to dangle by its strap.
“Start the engine!” Anil shouted, scrambling to the back of the boat.
Deepak yanked the cord, but the engine coughed and died. “It’s not catching!” he yelled.
More arrows came, faster now. One grazed Anil’s shoulder, tearing his shirt and drawing blood. He gasped, clutching the wound, his face twisted in pain. I ducked behind the boat’s low railing, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
“They’re in the water!” Deepak cried.
I peered over the edge and saw them—five, maybe six Sentinelese swimming toward us, their strokes powerful and silent. Their painted faces broke the surface, their eyes locked on us, spears clutched in their hands. They moved like predators, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
“Do something!” Anil shouted, pressing his hand against his bleeding shoulder.
I grabbed a metal pole from the boat’s floor, my hands slick with sweat. It felt useless against spears and arrows, but it was all I had. One of the swimmers reached the boat, his fingers curling over the edge. His face was close now, his eyes burning with a fury I couldn’t comprehend. He raised his spear, the tip glinting.
“Get back!” I yelled, swinging the pole. It hit his arm, and he slipped back into the water with a splash, but another was already climbing aboard, his spear aimed at Deepak.
I lunged, shoving the pole against his chest. He stumbled, falling backward, but more were coming. Arrows kept raining down, one slicing through my sleeve, grazing my arm. The pain was sharp, but adrenaline kept me moving.
Deepak yanked the cord again, and this time, the engine roared to life. The boat surged forward, throwing me against the railing. I clung to it, watching as the swimmers fell behind, their shapes swallowed by the sea. Arrows still flew, some splashing harmlessly into the water, others pinging off the boat’s hull.
We sped away, the island shrinking in the distance. I looked back, my chest heaving. The Sentinelese lined the shore now, more than I could count, their bows raised, arrows pointed at us. They didn’t chase us further, but their message was clear: we weren’t welcome.
We didn’t stop until the island was gone from sight, just a memory on the horizon. Anil sat slumped, his shoulder wrapped in a torn piece of cloth, blood soaking through. Deepak’s hands shook as he steered, his face pale.
“You happy now?” Anil snapped, his voice hoarse. “You got what you wanted?”
I looked at my camera, lying in a puddle of seawater on the boat’s floor. The lens was cracked, the screen dark. I pried open the compartment, hoping to save the memory card, but it was ruined, the data lost. Hours of planning, days of travel, and we’d come away with nothing but scars.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. “I didn’t think it’d be like this.”
“You didn’t listen,” Deepak said, his eyes fixed ahead. “They don’t want your cameras, your stories. They just want to be left alone.”
Back in Port Blair, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those skull-topped poles, those painted faces, those arrows slicing through the air. My arm stung where the arrow had grazed it, a shallow cut that would heal, unlike the deeper wound in my mind. I’d gone looking for a story, but what I found was a warning etched in bone and blood: some places aren’t meant to be seen.
I tried to write the article, but the words wouldn’t come. How could I explain the terror of those moments, the weight of knowing I’d crossed a line? The Sentinelese weren’t a story to be told—they were a people fighting to stay hidden, and I’d disrespected that. I put my notebook away, my camera too, and swore I’d never go back. Their island, their rules. I’d learned that the hard way.
The memory of that night clings to me, a shadow I can’t shake. The thump of drums, the whistle of arrows, the eyes that saw right through me—they’re part of me now, a reminder that curiosity can cost more than you’re willing to pay.
"We Escape Tonight":
I sat hunched in the damp, suffocating cell of Port Blair’s penal colony, the air thick with the stench of salt, sweat, and rotting wood. The stone walls, slick with grime and etched with the scratches of past prisoners, pressed in around me. My hands trembled as I leaned toward Raj and Arjun, my only allies in this forsaken place. “Tonight,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the distant clink of chains and the groans of other inmates. “We escape tonight, or we die here.”
Raj, a lean man with sharp eyes and nimble fingers that could pick any lock, glanced at the barred window high above. Moonlight barely slipped through, casting faint, wavering shadows on his tense, sweat-streaked face. “You’re out of your mind,” he hissed, his voice low but sharp. “The guards patrol every hour. They’ll catch us, and we’ll be flogged—or worse, strung up in the yard.”
Arjun, older, with a scholar’s weary gaze and a gray-streaked beard that hung unevenly from his thin face, placed a steady hand on Raj’s shoulder. “Stay in this cage, and we’re already dead,” he said softly, his voice calm but heavy with conviction. “Out there, we have a chance. A small one, but a chance.”
I nodded, my throat tight, my mouth dry from days of meager rations. For weeks, we’d planned this, ever since I overheard a guard muttering about a hidden cove where supply boats docked, often unguarded at night. Our plan was desperate: steal a raft, slip into the sea, and pray for land. The Andaman Islands were a maze of green and blue, scattered like forgotten jewels, but freedom was worth the risk. I clung to that thought, though doubt gnawed at my insides like a starving rat.
We waited, listening to the guards’ heavy footsteps, their boots scuffing the stone corridor. Their lanterns cast long, flickering shadows through the bars, dancing like ghosts on the cell walls. My heart pounded so loudly I feared they’d hear it. Raj kept rubbing his scarred wrist, where the shackles had bitten deep during his first year here. “What if the raft doesn’t hold?” he muttered, his voice trembling. “What if we’re trading one death for another?”
“Then we die free,” I said, meeting his eyes, trying to sound braver than I felt. He looked away, jaw tight, his fingers twitching nervously.
When the footsteps faded and the lanterns’ glow vanished, Arjun gave a sharp nod. We moved fast, prying up a floorboard we’d loosened over weeks with a shard of metal I’d smuggled from the quarry. The wood creaked, and I froze, expecting a guard’s shout, but none came. The dirt beneath was cool, smelling of earth and faint hope—a cruel tease of the world beyond these walls. I crawled through the narrow tunnel first, my elbows scraping jagged stone, the air growing damp and heavy, pressing against my chest. Raj’s quick, panicked breaths and Arjun’s low grunts followed me, echoing in the tight space.
We emerged near the shore, the sea stretching vast and dark, its surface glinting faintly under the stars. The raft, a patchwork of driftwood, stolen planks, and frayed rope, lay hidden under palm fronds behind a cluster of rocks. My hands trembled as I dragged it to the water’s edge, waves lapping hungrily at my feet, cold and biting. “Hurry,” I urged, glancing at the colony’s distant lights, faint but menacing, like eyes watching us.
Raj hesitated, feet planted in the sand, his silhouette tense against the dark sea. “This is madness,” he said, voice cracking, his hands clenched into fists. “We don’t even know where we’re going. What if there’s nothing out there?”
Arjun climbed onto the raft, his movements slow but deliberate, his scholar’s hands gripping the ropes with surprising strength. “Anywhere but here,” he said, his voice steady despite his gaunt frame. “Get on, Raj, or stay and rot.”
Raj cursed under his breath, a low, desperate sound, but followed, his steps unsteady. I pushed the raft into the surf, leaping aboard as the current caught us, the wood creaking under our weight. The colony faded into darkness, its lights swallowed by the night, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a surge of hope. We were free.
Days melted into one another, the sea a relentless torment. No food, no water. My lips cracked, tasting of salt and blood, each breath a dry rasp. My skin burned raw, peeling in strips, and my head throbbed with every heartbeat, a dull, endless pain. Raj slumped against the raft’s edge, his eyes hollow, his once-sharp features sunken. “We’re going to die out here,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the waves’ rhythmic slap. “This was a mistake.”
“Shut up,” I snapped, though fear clawed my gut, sharp and cold. My tongue felt like sandpaper, and my vision blurred at the edges. Arjun, weaker now, his face pale and slick with sweat, stared at the horizon, hands gripping the ropes to keep from collapsing. “There,” he croaked, pointing with a trembling finger, his voice barely a breath. “Land.”
A faint green line appeared, growing into an island, its beaches white and inviting, fringed with dense, dark jungle. Relief surged in my chest, but unease settled beside it, heavy and cold. The island looked untouched, too perfect, like a trap disguised as paradise. “What is this place?” I asked, my voice hoarse, barely carrying over the waves.
“No idea,” Arjun said, squinting, his eyes sunken but sharp with hope. “But it’s land. It’s hope.”
As we neared, the raft struck something hard—a reef, jagged and unforgiving. The wood splintered with a sickening crack, and a wave slammed into us, cold and brutal. Raj screamed, his arms flailing as the sea dragged him under, his face a mask of terror. I lunged, fingers brushing his sleeve, but he was gone, swallowed by the churning water. “Raj!” I shouted, my voice lost in the waves’ roar, my heart sinking with him.
Arjun clung to me, blood streaming from a gash on his leg where the reef had torn him, the red mixing with the sea’s foam. “Keep going!” he gasped, his grip weak, his face twisted in pain. The raft was breaking apart, planks snapping, ropes fraying. We had no choice. We swam, the current pulling us toward shore, every stroke a battle against exhaustion. My arms burned, lungs screaming, saltwater stinging my eyes, but the beach grew closer, its sand a pale promise.
We collapsed on the shore, gasping, grains sticking to our wet, bleeding skin. I lay there, chest heaving, staring at the jungle’s edge. It was too quiet—no birds, no breeze, just an oppressive stillness that made my skin prickle. The air smelled of salt and something sharper, like decay hidden beneath the green. “We made it,” I said, my voice ragged, trying to convince myself.
Arjun groaned, clutching his leg, blood seeping between his fingers, staining the sand a dark, ugly red. “We’re not safe yet,” he said, his eyes darting to the trees, wide with fear. “Did you hear that?”
I froze, listening. A faint rustle, like footsteps on leaves, came from the jungle, deliberate and slow. My heart raced, a cold sweat breaking out despite my exhaustion. “Maybe it’s animals,” I said, but the words felt hollow, a lie I couldn’t believe. The rustling stopped, then started again, closer, more purposeful. “We need to move,” I said, helping Arjun up, his weight heavy against me. His leg dragged, useless, leaving a trail of blood in the sand.
We stumbled toward the jungle’s edge, seeking cover, the sand sucking at our feet, slowing every step. I kept glancing back, expecting to see something—someone—emerge from the trees. The jungle loomed, its shadows deep and unwelcoming, branches tangled like a net waiting to trap us. “We shouldn’t be here,” Arjun whispered, his voice trembling, his breath shallow. “This place feels… wrong.”
A figure stepped from the trees, silent as a shadow. A man, skin dark, holding a bow with an arrow notched, the tip gleaming sharply. His eyes were cold, unblinking, his face blank, like a mask carved from stone. Another appeared, then another, each with spears or bows, moving with eerie silence, their bare feet leaving no trace in the sand. My stomach twisted, a sick, sinking feeling. They weren’t curious or angry—they were hunters, and we were prey.
“Say something,” Arjun hissed, gripping my arm so hard it hurt, his nails digging into my skin. I raised my hands, forcing a smile that felt like a grimace, my lips trembling. “We mean no harm,” I said, my voice shaking, barely audible. “We’re lost. Please, we need help.”
They didn’t move, didn’t blink. More emerged, circling us, their footsteps so light they seemed to glide over the sand. My pulse thundered in my ears, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “Please,” I said again, louder, desperate. “We don’t want trouble. We just want to live.”
An arrow shot past my ear, embedding in a tree with a sharp thud, the sound echoing in my skull. Arjun gasped, clutching me tighter, his body shaking. “Run!” he shouted, but his leg buckled, and he crumpled to the sand, dragging me down with him. I tried to pull him up, my hands slippery with his blood, the metallic smell filling my nose, but the tribesmen tightened their circle, their weapons gleaming, their eyes empty of mercy.
“Stay back!” I yelled, my voice cracking with desperation, raw and hoarse. They didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, their silence more terrifying than any shout. A spear grazed Arjun’s side, and he cried out, a sharp, broken sound, blood pooling beneath him, soaking the sand. I dropped to my knees, pressing my hands against the wound, the warm stickiness coating my fingers. “Hold on,” I said, tears burning my eyes, my voice barely a whisper. “Just hold on, Arjun.”
He grabbed my wrist, his grip weak, his eyes glassy but fierce. “Go,” he whispered, his voice fading, each word a struggle. “Save yourself.”
I wanted to run, but my legs felt heavy, rooted, my body refusing to move. The tribesmen stood like statues, their eyes empty, unfeeling, their weapons poised. An arrow struck my shoulder, the pain white-hot, stealing my breath, sending me sprawling beside Arjun. I gasped, vision swimming, the world tilting. His hand went limp in mine, his chest still, his blood mixing with mine in the sand.
The jungle swallowed all sound as the tribesmen raised their weapons, their movements slow, deliberate, like a ritual. I braced for the end, my heart pounding, my shoulder throbbing, but a distant hum broke the silence—a low, unnatural drone, growing louder, cutting through the stillness like a blade. The tribesmen froze, their heads turning toward the sea, their blank faces showing a flicker of unease, a crack in their predatory calm.
I followed their gaze, gasping through the pain, my vision blurry but clearing just enough to see. A boat, small but sturdy, its hull painted a faded gray, was approaching, its engine growling, the sound foreign and jarring in this silent place. Its bow cut through the waves, a faint lantern swinging on its deck, casting a weak, yellow glow. The tribesmen shifted, their bows still raised, but their attention split, their eyes darting between me and the boat.
I crawled toward the water, dragging myself over the sand, each movement agony, my shoulder screaming, blood dripping down my arm. “Help!” I screamed, my voice raw, cracking, barely human. The tribesmen moved, arrows flying toward the boat, splashing into the sea with soft plunks. But the boat pressed closer, undeterred, its engine louder now, a lifeline in the chaos.
A man leaned over the boat’s edge, his face weathered, his eyes wide with urgency. “Hold on!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the waves. “We’re coming!” Another man, younger, scrambled to lower a rope ladder, his hands fumbling but quick. Arrows splashed around them, one striking the boat’s hull with a dull thud, but they didn’t stop.
I stumbled into the shallows, waves lapping at my knees, cold and sharp, my strength fading. The tribesmen hesitated, some lowering their bows, others stepping back toward the jungle, their movements uncertain, as if the boat’s presence disrupted their resolve. I reached out, my fingers brushing the ladder, slick with seaweed and salt. Hands grabbed me, strong and calloused, pulling me aboard, my body limp, pain blurring everything.
I collapsed on the deck, the wood hard against my back, the engine’s vibration rumbling through me. “You’re safe now,” the older man said, his voice gruff but kind, his hands pressing a cloth to my shoulder to stem the bleeding. “Saw your raft’s wreckage from a distance,” he added, glancing at the sea. “We were charting reefs, didn’t expect to find anyone out here.”
The younger man, his face pale, pointed at the island. “Those people… they don’t want visitors,” he said, his voice shaking. “We’ve heard stories. No one comes here.”
I turned my head, my vision swimming, and saw Arjun’s body on the beach, motionless, the tribesmen retreating into the jungle, their eyes still locked on us, cold and unyielding. The boat’s engine roared, pulling us away, the island shrinking, its white sand and dark trees fading into a haze. My shoulder throbbed, my body weak, but I was alive. The men’s voices faded as I slipped into darkness, the hum of the engine a faint promise that I’d escaped a place that didn’t forgive intruders.
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