The snowstorm had hit us hard. Flipped the Cessna over and we crash landed into a deep ravine in the Himalayas. Trees broke our fall but the plane was totalled. We were lucky to survive. So we thought at the time, even though Liam had a bone sticking out of his arm and I suffered concussion; perhaps more. That was nineteen days ago.
We ran out of food on the third day. The last digestive biscuit that we took turns to bite. Couldn’t waste a crumb. Melted snow kept us alive for a few more days, while we huddled together in a sheltered crevice.
Liam stumbled across the Cessna’s toolkit on the eighth day, when the snowclouds had offered respite. Half-buried, but intact. Inside was small can of fuel and a lighter, plus a hacksaw and other cutting implements.
I gathered a few broken branches. Then cut down more.
Lit a fire.
Searched the greying sky for any sign of rescue.
Two more days. Then another two. Hope faded.
We were getting weaker; Liam’s eyes glazed over, and I heard voices mocking me.
‘Food, Cheryl ... Food.’
Liam hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t smiled at me. Fresh tears ran down my face and froze on my cheeks. I shivered, and wrapped my deerskin jacket tight. I couldn’t feel my toes anymore. I didn’t want to take off my Reeboks; I’d seen Liam’s feet.
Black as hell.
I sawed his off. Watched wistfully as crimson mingled with white.
The roasted thighs tasted exotic; just like pork, but the calves were stringy. I wondered if the arms would taste better, but I would leave the tattooed one with my name on it until last.