[ WP ] You 've been drifting at sea for 20 days , and you 're beginning to wonder if leaving the island was such a great idea .

The water is relatively calm and quiet, but I still hardly notice the grumbling of my stomach. By now I ’ m accustomed to the sound of it. I look down at the white-wrapped granola bar in my hand, the last of the rations I ’ d brought. There was much more food back there, but I ’ d only been able to fit so much onto my makeshift raft. I figured I ’ d have found… *something* by now. But twenty days in and not a single murmur of a plane, a ship, another land mass, or anything. Just endless miles of sparkling water stretching in every direction, like a child had carelessly splashed blue paint and gold glitter over a massive canvas. 
 
 With a defeated sigh, I unwrap the bar and take a big, delicious bite. I try my best to enjoy the moment, rather than dwell on how un-filling it ’ s going to seem two bites later when it ’ s gone. Something had better show up soon, or these tied-together logs will soon turn from raft to coffin. Though I suppose that ’ s still a better fate than if I ’ d stayed back there. 
 
 The island was a strange place; a bipolar host. On one hand it gave me exactly what I needed: materials for shelter initially, a mysterious bunker filled with a remarkable amount of food and some other supplies as well, and a nice freshwater stream through the forest to boot. On the other, it seemed out to kill me half the time. The things I heard in those woods are what drove me away from the shelter and rations, out here to the unwelcoming ocean. The lesser of two evils. 
 
 Breaking out from the haze of memory, I look up to the horizon, and feel my insides jump. Overcome with excitement, I shout aloud, “ Land ahoy! ” Hoisting up the paddle I ’ d whittled myself, I began pushing toward it with renewed energy. 
 
 After making it to the beach, I stand and look around for some sign of direction. I ’ ve been adrift for a long time, hopefully there ’ ll be some sign of civilization here, wherever I am. The sandy ground along the water extends in both directions, whereas inland is nothing but thick forest. As my surroundings do n't seem to lead me anywhere in particular, I decide to follow the beach, figuring if there are people anywhere nearby, they ’ ll at least have left some evidence of it near the coast somewhere. I choose the direction toward the lowering sun, thinking I might extend my daylight by a minute or two at least, and set off. 
 
 Before long I find the ground rising as I reach the edge of a rocky cliff rising out of the water. To stay low would be to swim, so I begin to ascend, as sand gives way to grass and earth. Once I ’ m up above the level of the highest tide, I start encountering trees. They grow closer together as I move forward, all the way out to the edge of the cliff. It seems the forest is unavoidable. 
 
 In the shade of the foliage, the air is cool and damp. But there ’ s something far more chilling about this place. My heart freezes as I first notice the whispers in the woods. No, it ’ s not possible. Surely I can ’ t be back. But before I have more time to ponder it, I hear a bloodcurdling roar from somewhere behind me. The same roar I ’ d heard more than once on the accursed island. Which is followed by the same thunderous stomping. 
 
 I turn inland and begin sprinting, drawing on what little strength I have left. I weave through tree after tree, somewhere deep in my mind beginning to feel more and more familiar with my surroundings. Just as I am accepting that I ’ m back where I started, I break out into a clearing. The last of the sun ’ s rays angle sharply in and reflect off the bunker door, the same bunker I lived in for a month before. Putting off my despair for later, I rush over and lower myself in, latching the door behind me before kneeling to catch my breath. 
 
 Once I ’ ve recovered, my stomach takes over and I make my way to the pantry, pleased to find it just as I ’ d left it. There is a bit of a void where I ’ d cleared out my supplies for the raft trip, but there is still far more food left. Hungrily I grab one of the preservative-laden prepackaged meals and tear it open, shoveling it into my mouth at record speed. 
 
 As I swallow the last of it, I gaze upon the torn packaging, almost wryly amused by my predicament. “ Dharma Initiative – Meal. ” I have no idea who these people are, or were, but I ’ m starting feel like one of them now. It seems as though it ’ s my destiny to stay here.
