The first mate was weightless in the life preserve, Like caskets floating to the surface; packed tight with waterlogged corpses. Old friends of many years were now forever memorys. The first mate did not understand sacrifice. Could not. He shot a pained glance down at the scattered remnants of the Mariana. The bow loomed over the current, splintered wood jutting into the skyline; the other half of the ship invisible beneath the waves. 5 years on that ship... The first mates hands were pruned and cracked, the fingernails chewed to the bit. Why had he done it? Would anyone else understand? Could they? Surely no god was waiting to pass down final judgment for his betrayal. He had survived. any guilt was pushed aside as he waded onto the beach, his bare back was red and pulsing with radiation. His torn shorts concealed a flare gun, two flares stuffed into the left pocket. Through the crimson tide a rigid corpse drifted past. He thought he recognized it but did not wish to conjure up a name. On the face were two gaping holes where the eyes should have been. flies buzzed and left fecal flecks on the dead man.

He focused on the land mass ahead. Hundreds of crates littered the shore, the plundered loot from dozens of fiery conquests. Uncharted tropics stretched on for miles; lush and green. He moved upwind, the breeze made the trees sway gently. A flock of Seagulls soared silently overhead. He finally reached solid ground, he collapsed and clutched at the course sand beneath him. He was content to lie there for sometime, ignoring his thirst. Without a thought in his head, the first mate turned onto his back and fell asleep there, as the moonlight called the tide back from his feet.