Day zero
location- somewere in the Thinahtea South Protected Area, Canada
She lay there for a long moment, stunned. Breathing hard. Listening to the wind in the trees, the creak of branches high above, the distant echo of the explosion still bouncing through her skull.
A plane crash.
She had survived a plane crash.
Ashes blinked up at the swaying canopy, trying to absorb the sheer magnitude of it. She'd been yanked out into the sky with a barely-grabbed parachute and somehow survived the kind of landing that should have broken bones—or worse.
With a groan, she rolled onto her side and began to take inventory. Arms: good. Legs: sore, but working. Nothing felt broken. Just cuts, bruises, and a deep, bone-deep ache starting to bloom.
She sat up slowly. The parachute pulled behind her with the motion, rustling through the undergrowth like a whisper.
Still no sign of anyone else. No voices. No wreckage. Just trees. Endless, towering trees.
Ashes stood, carefully, brushing dirt and pine needles from her clothes. Her breathing steadied.
She was alive.
But alone.
And Day Zero had just begun.
Ashes pulled off the parachute harness and dropped to one knee, catching her breath. Time to take stock.
On her:
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One red t-shirt — torn and streaked with dirt and sap from the landing
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One pair of khaki cargo pants — filthy but intact; they'd saved her legs from being shredded
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One cell phone with earbuds — 90% battery, zero signal. She powered it off.
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One multi-tool — thank god. Not a Bowie knife, but any blade was better than none
- One wallet with her passport, credit card and some cash- only good for as tinder now.
She turned to the mess of nylon and cord tangled in the undergrowth behind her. The chute had fully deployed, dragging through the canopy and scraping across the forest floor on impact. Lines were caught in roots and branches. A mess—but salvageable.
As she started to gather it, she realized something strange: the gear wasn’t standard-issue civvy stuff. The harness was heavy-duty, the cord thick and evenly cut, not frayed. This wasn’t a cheap escape rig.
Looks like the pilot—or maybe the owner—had military surplus tastes.
Probably a vet. Probably didn’t trust standard kits.
Lucky her.
Scattered and tangled around her, she found:
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A full parachute canopy — dirty and torn in a couple places, but mostly intact. Waterproof. Usable for shelter.
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About 400 feet of 550 cord — deployed in 30-foot lengths, snagged in branches and trailing behind her. It would take time to untangle, but it was solid stuff.
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A tiny first aid kit wedged in a thigh pocket on the harness — gauze, a few band-aids, four antibiotic tablets, four iodine tabs, and tweezers
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A small signal mirror, clipped to the shoulder strap — with a tiny compass embedded in one corner
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A 12oz metal flask — empty, but intact, still clipped to the webbing
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A empty thick plastic 1 gallon water bag that’s tightly rolled- good for use with the iodine tabs
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One smoke flare — dented but unopened, rolled into a side pouch
Ashes crouched there for a while, hands on her knees, letting the silence settle.
It wasn’t much. But in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but trees in every direction, it felt like treasure.
She could work with this.
Ashes gathers the parachute and coils of 550 cord into a rough heap, planning to deal with it later. For now, she takes a moment to survey her surroundings.
Nothing but trees.
Massive ones—some so wide it would take four or five of her, fingertip to fingertip, just to wrap around their trunks. The light filtering down through the canopy is dim and greenish, casting the forest floor in perpetual twilight. It makes her wonder how dark—how cold—the nights might get.
The ground beneath her boots is soft and springy, a thick carpet of pine needles layered over years of decay.
She needs to get her bearings. If the wreck is still burning, there’ll be smoke. And if there’s smoke, she might be able to find the crash site.
Ashes approaches one of the towering trees and cranes her neck to look up. Climbing it by hand would be nearly impossible.
Then it hits her—the cord.
She turns back toward the pile and grabs one of the thirty-foot lengths of 550. It’s time to improvise.
She studies the tree again, then the cord in her hands. A memory surfaces—some old wilderness article she read once, maybe something her dad showed her. Not perfect, not safe, but maybe enough.
Ashes sets to work.
She cuts a length of cord and ties a sturdy loop for each foot, securing them around her boots like stirrups. Another line goes around the tree itself, lashed tightly with a friction hitch, and cinched around her waist like a crude harness. With one foot in each loop and the cord braced around the trunk, she hugs the tree and pulls herself upward.
Push with the legs. Scoot the waist cord. Repeat.
The bark scrapes her arms. Her thighs burn. The loops bite into her boots. But inch by inch, she climbs—slow and awkward, like some kind of gearless lineman.
The forest opens up below her, a green abyss. Still no wind. Still no sound but her own breath.
She doesn’t look down.
After a few grueling minutes, Ashes is already sweating through her shirt. Her arms tremble. Her legs burn. She’s glad—really glad—that she’s stayed in shape over the years. Hiking. Climbing. Urban exploring. All of it adds up, but this? This is something else.
The cord digs into her hips. Her boots are slipping in the loops. She grits her teeth and keeps going.
At around twenty feet, she finally reaches the first branch—a thick, ancient limb nearly as wide as her waist. She straddles it gratefully, arms wrapped around the trunk, legs dangling. The bark is rough against her skin, but it feels like salvation.
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She takes a few steadying breaths, then adjusts the harness—re-tightens the cord, resets her footing—and continues climbing.
Higher.
The air grows cooler. The light, greener. The wind, sharper.
And then—finally—she breaks through the worst of the canopy. Roughly fifty feet up, the tree begins to sway with each gust. Not wildly, but enough to make her stomach twist. She clings tighter, eyes wide, and forces herself to look out.
A sea of green stretches in every direction.
And there—on the horizon—curling faintly into the sky like a distant signal…
Smoke.
Ashes takes a moment to catch her breath, steadying herself on the gently swaying branch. She pulls the signal mirror from her pocket and angles it just enough to check the tiny built-in compass. The smoke is northwest—maybe 9 or 10 miles out, though it’s hard to judge through the shifting canopy and distance haze.
Up here, the world feels unreal. Almost silent. Just her breathing, the creak of the great tree, and the soft rustle of wind pulling at her bright red hair.
She scans the horizon carefully. To the west, a lake glints faintly through the trees. Beyond that, far in the distance, jagged mountains rise up in hazy blue layers—framing both her and the distant wreck in the heart of a massive valley.
It’s beautiful. Vast. Terrifying.
She feels impossibly small.
After a long pause, she braces herself for the climb back down. No easy task—especially since she won’t be able to see where she’s placing her feet. She tightens her grip on the cord, swallows the knot in her throat, and begins the slow descent into green shadow.
Ashes begins the climb down, slow and deliberate, her breath shallow with focus. The sway of the tree feels stronger now—like it’s alive and shifting against her. Each movement of the harness takes twice the effort going backward. She can’t see her footholds. Can’t judge distance well. It’s all feel and guesswork.
About halfway down, her boot slips.
One of the stirrup loops pops loose and her leg dangles free. The sudden jolt makes her yelp—just once—and her heart slams against her ribs. She clutches the trunk, fingers scraping bark, legs locked around the tree in a desperate squeeze.
She doesn't move for a few long seconds. Just breathes. Then slowly, carefully, she finds the cord again, re-threads her boot, and continues downward—this time even more cautious than before.
By the time her boots touch solid ground, her arms are shaking and her shirt is soaked through with sweat. She stumbles back from the base of the tree and sinks into a crouch, letting the adrenaline pass.
But she made it.
She knows where the wreck is. She knows the direction. And now, she has a goal.
But the crash site can wait.
Reaching it is the long-term goal—but survival comes first.
Ashes wrestles the parachute and cords into the pack as best she can, jamming the nylon and tangled 550 into the frame until the zipper strains. It’s awkward and heavy, but manageable. She shoulders it and turns west, toward the glinting lake she saw from the treetop.
She moves carefully through the forest, eyes scanning for anything useful—berries, fallen limbs, game trails—but finds only moss, needles, and silence. The towering trees press close, and time stretches oddly in the quiet.
About fifteen minutes in, she spots something: a patch of swampy ground at the base of a small hill, thick with moss and dark mud. Above it, a tiny spring trickles down the slope—clear, cold, and alive. She hikes up the hill, following the narrow path of damp earth until she finds the source: a thin stream emerging between two stones.
Using a stick, she clears some debris from the tiny opening. The flow muddies at first, swirling with dirt and grit, but she waits, watching. Within two minutes the water runs clear again—slow, but steady.
Ashes smiles to herself. A spring like this, fed by an underground aquifer, is almost always safe to drink from.
She cups her hands beneath the flow, lets them fill, and brings the cool water to her lips.
It tastes like life.
She fills both the water bag and the metal flask, securing them to the outside of her pack with loops of cord. The added weight is noticeable, but worth it. With one last glance at the spring, she checks the compass and heads out again.
Northwest. Still heading for the wreck, but more importantly—moving forward.
The hike is steady and quiet. After a while, she estimates it’s around 3 PM. The light filtering through the trees is still strong, soft and green, but steady. There’s time. No rush—yet.
Ashes silently thanks the spirits, or fate, or whatever was watching out for her, that it's early summer. The air is cool but bearable. A little damp. If this were winter, she’d already be halfway to frostbite and desperation.
She hasn't seen any berries, but she’s found a few more small springs—each one a little reassurance that she won’t die of thirst today.
Eventually, after another spring bubbles up near a patch of ferns, she stops.
Time to make camp.
She knows from experience that building shelter and fire from scratch takes time, especially with nothing but a multi-tool and some cord. No point in pushing it too close to nightfall.
She searches the area and finds what she’s looking for: a massive fallen tree, maybe twenty yards from the spring. The trunk is weathered and half-embedded in the earth, its roots lifted and gnarled like a frozen wave. Beside the base, there’s a natural hollow—part erosion, part animal den, maybe.
Ashes gets to work.
She clears it out with her hands and a stick, scraping away moss, dirt, old pinecones. When she’s done, the space beneath the root and log is just large enough for her to lie flat. The ceiling of bark and root arches over her head. Cramped, but dry. Hidden. Solid.
With the hollow cleared and the base of the fallen tree forming a sturdy wall behind her, Ashes unzips the pack and pulls out the battered parachute and coils of 550 cord.
The fabric is torn and crumpled, but there’s still enough surface area to work with.
She rigs up a makeshift lean-to, securing one edge to a branch above the exposed roots and the other to stakes made from sharpened sticks, driven into the soil just beyond the hollow. The chute flutters slightly in the breeze, but once it’s cinched down with the cord, it holds.
It covers just over half the opening—enough to keep dew or light rain off her while still leaving room for a fire at the front. She positions the fire spot opposite the tree, using the thick log base and root wall as a natural heat reflector. It’ll bounce warmth back into the hollow and maybe even dry her gear a bit.
It’s not perfect. The corners sag. The chute smells faintly of smoke and fuel. But it’s shelter—and in the wild, that’s everything.
With the shelter in place, Ashes grabs the now much lighter pack and sets off to gather firewood. She focuses first on the easy stuff—dry twigs and branches already off the ground, snapping them down to size and stacking them in the pack and cradled in her arms.
She hauls the first load back to camp and drops it beside the fire pit, then heads out again.
The second trip is for larger pieces—thicker limbs that will burn longer and hotter. It takes more effort to snap them or haul them back whole, but she knows the truth of it: even a small fire burns through wood faster than you'd expect. She’ll need a small mountain of it just to last the night, and if she stays here longer than that, it’ll be a daily task.
Fire eats calories. And so does collecting wood.
By the third run, she’s sweating, arms sore, but her rhythm is solid. As she skirts a mossy patch of fallen logs, a flash of color catches her eye—bright orange against all the green.
Salmonberries.
She lets out a soft laugh and does a small celebratory dance in the middle of the clearing. The first real win of the day.
She plucks a few and eats them right off the bush—tart, juicy, and perfect. Not enough to fill her belly, but enough to lift her spirits.
She notes the location carefully. She’ll be back.
Ashes eyes the pile of wood beside her shelter and gives a small nod. It’s not a full night’s worth—not if the temperature drops hard—but it’ll do for now.
She unscrews the cap on the metal flask and finishes the last of the water. Then she grabs the empty container and heads back toward the salmonberry bush.
It doesn’t take long to fill up. The flask’s wide mouth makes it easy—one handful into her mouth, two into the flask, repeat. The berries are sweet and tart, bursting with juice, and they ease the gnawing in her stomach just enough to keep her steady.
By the time the flask is full, she’s sticky-fingered and slightly less hungry. It'll buy her a few hours, at least.
She wipes her hands on her pants and heads back to camp.
Now comes the real challenge—the hardest task so far.
Starting a fire.
Ashes starts with the driest stick she can find, using the blade on her multitool to shave it down into fine curls of wood. The shavings flutter into her palm like paper. Next, she cuts a short section—maybe an inch—off one of her precious lengths of 550 cord. She frays it with her fingers until it’s a soft, tangled puff of fibers, easy to catch a spark.
She layers the shavings over the fluffed cord, then builds up a tiny nest of twigs and thin kindling over top. It’s delicate work—one wrong move and it’ll smother before it ever catches. With the foundation in place, she organizes the rest of her wood pile within arm’s reach, ready to feed the flames quickly once they’re lit.
From the multitool, she pulls the tiny ferro rod—barely longer than her pinky finger—and sets it near the base of the tinder. Striking it is awkward; the short length makes it hard to get good leverage. Sparks fly wide or fizzle out.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
On the fifth strike, a spark lands just right.
The frayed cord smolders.
Ashes drops to her knees and leans in close, cupping her hands around the ember and breathing gently—slow, steady breaths, coaxing it like a secret.
The fluff glows red, then bursts into a fragile tongue of flame. The wood shavings catch. Then the twigs.
She smiles, the flickering light reflected in her green eyes.
Carefully, she feeds the fire—small sticks first, then thicker ones. She keeps it modest, controlled. No bonfires out here. Just enough for heat, light, and a bit of comfort.
She sits back and rests, staring into the fire, thinking about the day. It had all started so normally—catching a cheap ride on a cargo plane, just for the fun of it. Chatting with the pilots. Swapping stories with other adventure-chasers, all of them laughing about ridiculous layovers and tight budgets.
Then everything went wrong in a second.
The explosion.
The sound.
The terror.
She hadn’t had time to think about any of it—not really. Not until now. Every second since the fall had been about survival. About moving. Acting. Doing.
But now, with shelter overhead and fire at her feet, the weight of it crashes down.
The isolation. The silence. The sheer impossibility of still being alive.
Ashes wraps her arms around herself, and finally, completely, breaks down—sobbing, loud and messy, into the flickering dark.
Eventually, the tears slow. The fire crackles on.
And sometime after that, curled beneath the parachute tarp with her pack as a pillow and her thoughts still racing, she drifts into a troubled sleep.