The sky was bleeding.
That was the first thing Alex Morgan noticed as he leaned against the cold windowpane of Flight 779, watching streaks of crimson and amber stretch across the clouds like someone had painted the horizon with fire. Beneath them, a shadowed jungle sprawled endlessly, coiling through valleys and crawling up the spines of ancient mountains. It was wild, untouched, and vast—more beast than land.
He didn't know then that it would become his prison.
Alex exhaled slowly, fogging the window. His breath was tight in his chest, that same quiet tension he felt every time a plane climbed too high or began to descend too quickly. He wasn't afraid of flying. Not really. He was afraid of what came after.
He shifted in his seat, pressing the side of his head against the window again. The hum of the engines vibrated through the seatback like a pulse. Normal. Calm. But his instincts. Something felt off.
Across the aisle, Ian was dozing with his headphones in, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was dreaming about something ridiculous. Probably about his motorcycle or winning a chili cook-off. That man could sleep through a stampede.
Alex reached for the paperback novel in his lap—a survival guide, ironically—and flipped it closed. Words didn't feel helpful anymore. Not when the pit of his stomach was curling into knots.
The intercom crackled. The captain's voice came through, calm and professional.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're experiencing slight turbulence due to an approaching storm cell. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened."
Alex blinked. He hadn't noticed clouds gathering. But now, as he looked again, the peaceful sunset had twisted into something darker. Storm clouds loomed on the edges of the sky, curling like smoke, swallowing light as they rolled toward the plane with eerie silence.
A rumble—deep and drawn out—shivered through the fuselage. The engines whined, louder this time, like they were struggling to breathe.
He glanced toward the stewardess, buckling herself into the jump seat. Her hands trembled. Not much, but enough. Enough to spike his pulse.
Then it hit.
A sudden jolt slammed the aircraft downward. Passengers screamed. Trays flew into the air. The plane dropped like a rock, then jerked violently to the left, throwing people against their seatbelts. Oxygen masks tumbled down in limp white loops.
Alex grabbed his mask, yanked it over his face. The cabin pressure screamed through his ears.
Another explosion—louder. This time, fire. Orange flickered outside the window. The right engine was on fire.
Alarms howled. A metallic shriek roared through the cabin as the plane lost altitude. The wing cracked, bending like paper. Luggage spilled from the overhead bins, pelting passengers.
The pilot's voice returned, but it was fragmented, panicked.
"—brace for—emergency—forest below—repeat—impact in—"
Alex barely had time to turn to Ian.
"Wake up!"
Ian's eyes snapped open in time to see the fire.
The ground rushed up.
Trees. Sky. Fire. Screams. Metal twisting. Darkness.
Silence.
The kind of silence that follows death.
Alex's eyes opened slowly. Pain blanketed his body in a dull, hot hum. His ears rang like bells had been strapped to his skull. His right leg ached, and his hands were cut, blood streaking down his knuckles. His mouth tasted of iron and smoke.
The plane was... gone. Not gone entirely—just no longer whole.
He sat amidst the remnants of what had once been the middle cabin. The fuselage was torn wide open, its metallic skin peeled back like a fruit. Trees had impaled the side. Smoke curled upward into the canopy like a prayer.
He groaned as he sat up. "Ian…?"
No response.
He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling through the wreckage.
Bodies were scattered like broken dolls. Some were still strapped to their seats. Others flung outward, resting in unnatural stillness. Flames crackled on the far end, and a plume of thick black smoke rose into the leaves.
His hand found Ian's seat—but it was empty. Ripped open. Blood on the cushions. No sign of where his friend had gone.
Panic tried to claw its way into his chest, but Alex pushed it down. He needed clarity now. Focus.
He moved from body to body, checking for signs of life. Nothing. Only a few shallow breaths from a flight attendant, too broken to move.
He found a medkit near the cargo hatch, mostly intact. Bandaged his bleeding arm. Wrapped his leg, trying not to wince. His army training kicked in. Stop the bleeding. Assess the area. Build shelter. Find help.
He climbed back into what remained of the cockpit, the pilot's corpse still draped over the controls. His fingers trembled as he pried open the storage bin behind the seat where they kept emergency beacons and radios.
One radio. A bit dented. The antenna half-snapped. He twisted the dial anyway.
"Mayday... this is Flight 779. Plane down. Jungle coordinates unknown. Requesting immediate assistance. Survivors..."
Static.
"Please... anyone."
Nothing.
He adjusted the signal, switched to another frequency.
Silence.
"Come on, dammit!" he shouted into the mic. "We're alive!"
But the only thing that answered was the jungle.
By nightfall, the fires had died. But the darkness came alive with sounds Alex had never heard before. Growls. Chittering. Wings flapping overhead. The rustle of unseen things in the undergrowth.
He had gathered some supplies—two water bottles, a pocketknife, a flare gun with one shot, and a small emergency blanket. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.
He made camp near the edge of the wreckage. He hadn't dared to go into the forest yet. Not in the dark.
The stars above were sharp and indifferent. The jungle hummed and pulsed with ancient rhythm.
Sleep didn't come easily. Every creak of a branch made him sit up. Every shriek in the distance made his skin crawl.
And yet… he was alive.
Morning came with birdsong. A thousand voices in chaotic harmony.
Alex stretched his aching limbs, checking his bandages. The wound on his thigh had swollen. He'd need to find clean water. Food. Something.
But first—search for Ian.
He spent the better part of the morning combing the crash site. No sign. Blood trails led into the jungle, then vanished. Claw marks on the trees. He didn't want to think what that meant.
By midday, he sat on a moss-covered log, trying the radio again. Still static.
"Maybe the satellite's out of range," he muttered to himself. "Or broken beyond hope."
He looked at the trees—tall, towering things with thick canopies and roots like muscles.
Something moved above him. A flash of yellow eyes.
He raised the knife instinctively.
Nothing.
Just wind?
He stood, gathering what he could carry. A half-burned photo of his sister fluttered from the wreckage. He picked it up, tucked it into his shirt pocket.
"I'll get out of here," he whispered. "I'll make it."
The jungle did not make it easy.
By late afternoon, he had encountered leeches, ants the size of thumbnails, and thorny vines that drew blood. He slipped in the mud more than once, nearly impaling himself on a broken branch.
At one point, he found the tail end of the plane—completely upside down and nearly buried in vines. Inside was the cargo hold. Supplies. Food rations. A machete. Rope.
He smiled grimly. "Finally, something went right."
He ate half a protein bar. Drank sparingly. Packed a makeshift bag.
That night, he set a fire. Just enough to scare off predators.
Or so he thought.
Because just after midnight, he heard something stalking nearby.
Heavy paws.
Low growls.
A jaguar.
It watched from the trees, eyes glowing like embers. Alex stood slowly, knife in hand, heart thundering.
But the beast didn't move. It simply started.
Then, without warning, it turned and vanished into the dark.
He didn't sleep again.
Instead, he listened. To the whispers. To the stories the jungle told in rustling leaves and snapping twigs.
He wasn't alone. Not anymore.
And the forest... it was watching.