The Last 200: Rebuilding Humanity

Chapter 2: The Geometry of Lifesaving

"Come on, breathe!" Ethan yelled, pressing down on her chest. "Don't you dare die on me!" He positioned his hands again, preparing for another round. "One, two, three—"

"Actually, your hand placement is sub-optimal," a raspy, incredibly calm voice muttered from beneath him.

Ethan gasped, jumping back onto the wet sand. "What in the world?!"

The woman coughed up a pint of saltwater, rolled onto her side, and took a shuddering breath. Then, she looked up with half-lidded, analytical eyes. "You were pressing on my lower sternum. Specifically, the xiphoid process. You could have easily fractured my ribs, which would complicate my recovery."

"I just saved your life!" Ethan shouted, clutching his own racing heart. "A simple 'thank you' would be normal! People usually say thank you!"

"Thank you is a social construct," she said, her voice dry as dust. "A more accurate expression of gratitude would be pointing out that your chest compressions lacked the required two-inch depth. But the effort was... adequate."

"Adequate?" Ethan repeated, staring at her in disbelief. "You almost drowned! Your ridiculous raft literally disintegrated on the coral reef!"

"Almost is a highly subjective term. Technically, my lungs were only partially compromised, and the raft's structural integrity was already compromised by seventy-eight percent before impact," she said, trying to sit up but failing miserably.

"Can you walk?" Ethan asked, holding out a hand. "Or are you going to sit there and analyze the sand?"

"My lower extremities are currently experiencing temporary paralysis due to severe localized hypothermia and lactic acid buildup," she replied, staring at her own legs. "So, statistically speaking, no. Walking is mathematically impossible."

Ethan groaned, scooping her up into a bridal carry. "Great. Just great. Welcome to my paradise. Try not to die on my shoulder."

"Your heart rate is approximately one hundred and forty beats per minute," she remarked, resting her head against his shoulder with a completely relaxed expression. "Is this due to physical exertion, or are you simply intimidated by my presence? Or perhaps you are falling in love?"

"It's because I'm carrying a crazy person up a steep hill, through sharp thorns, while soaking wet!" Ethan snapped, marching toward the medical hut. "You weigh a ton! Or at least, you feel like a heavy bag of rocks."

"Actually, my mass is approximately fifty-four kilograms," she corrected calmly. "Your struggle is likely due to the geometric inefficiency of your carrying angle. If you shifted your left arm approximately three inches upward, you would optimize the leverage."

"If you don't shut up, I'm going to drop you in the mud," Ethan threatened. But he secretly adjusted his grip anyway. To his annoyance, she suddenly felt much lighter. "Who even talks like this after a shipwreck?"

"An intellectual," she said simply. "Though technically, I am a biochemist. Your deltoid muscles are surprisingly well-developed for a castaway. What is your protein source? Is it fish? Or perhaps some mutated local fauna?"

"Wild berries, tubers, and pure, unadulterated stress," Ethan grumbled. "Now keep quiet. We're almost there."

"This island is geographically isolated," she observed, looking around the dense canopy. "The biodiversity suggests a controlled micro-biome. It is fascinating."

"Yeah, it's a real tropical paradise," Ethan muttered, kicking open the door of the log medical hut. He placed her gently onto the bamboo cot. "Alright, stay still. Don't touch anything."

"I have no choice," she whispered, her eyelids fluttering. "My metabolic reserves are severely depleted."

"You look terrible," Ethan said, looking at her pale, chapped lips. "You're severely dehydrated. Let me get you some water."

"No," she said, grabbing his collar with surprising, desperate strength. Her dark eyes locked onto his. "Plain water will cause hyponatremia. Listen to me carefully."

"Okay, okay, I'm listening!" Ethan said, leaning closer. "What do you need? Just tell me."

"In my wet satchel," she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek, "there are dried leaves of Scaevola taccada. Mix them with exactly two hundred milliliters of coconut water, a pinch of crushed sea salt from your shelf, and three drops of wild honey. Now."

"Wait, a chemical formula?" Ethan blinked. "Are you serious? Where am I going to find exact measurements?"

"Two hundred milliliters," she repeated, her grip slipping away. "Do not estimate. Precision is life. Otherwise, my cells will lyse."

With a soft sigh, her eyes closed, and her head fell back onto the cot.

"Hey! Don't pass out now!" Ethan panicked, shaking her shoulder gently. "What's the honey-to-salt ratio? Hey! Wake up!"

She didn't answer. Her breathing was shallow.

"Great, just great," Ethan muttered. He scrambled around the hut, grabbing her wet satchel. "Two hundred milliliters... okay, where is my measuring cup? Right, the carved bamboo cup."

He poured the coconut water, carefully measuring it against the notched lines on the wood. "Okay, salt... honey... where are those leaves?" He searched the satchel and found a small, sealed pouch. "Aha. Scaevola taccada."

He crushed the leaves, mixing them into the liquid with a clean wooden stick. "Please don't let this poison her."

He lifted her head gently, resting it against his chest. Her body felt small, surprisingly delicate compared to her sharp tongue. He carefully poured the herbal rehydration mixture down her throat. "Drink up, genius."

She swallowed reflexively, coughing slightly, then settled back into a deep, stable sleep. Her breathing slowed, becoming regular and warm.

Ethan sat back on a wooden stool, wiping sweat from his brow. He stared at her quiet face, a strange, quiet warmth blooming in his chest. Despite her bizarre attitude, she was style and science combined. "Crazy," he muttered with a small, soft smile. "But definitely interesting."

Suddenly, a faint, rhythmic humming sound filled the quiet hut.

"What is that?" Ethan whispered.

A soft, crimson glow began to emanate from the back of her neck. A holographic projection materialized in the air above her, flickering violently.

Ethan gasped, leaning closer to the red screen.

`SYSTEM CORRUPTION DETECTED.`

`TIME REMAINING UNTIL CRITICAL FAILURE: 72:00:00`

The crimson numbers began to tick down.

`71

:59:59... 71:59:58...`

Ethan's blood ran cold. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."