Colonization (The Seamus Chronicles Book 3) by K. D. McAdams Page B

doesn’t remember our camp at all. But even hung over he is the intelligent, resourceful person I would have expected. It doesn’t take him long to find the trail we followed here and he slowly leads the banged up group up the switchback and off into the underbrush.
    Cassandra and I go back to the plane to gather supplies. They were so careless with the food it kills me. There are partially opened packages of crackers laying on the ground and vacuum-sealed bundles of jerky unopened under random pieces of cardboard.
    I wade through the stream and climb into the remnants of the plane. Inside is a total wreck. It appears as though the restraints for the pile of supplies failed during their landing. The load not only shifted, but scattered. It’s no wonder that they could not find bottles of water or the tools needed to open some of the provisions. But it’s all here, we just need time to collect it.
    Now is not the time, however. I’m searching for a bag or a pack of some kind. Cassandra is outside filling mine with whatever food remnants lay discarded. She was disgusted with the idea that someone would have to eat a half chewed protein bar, but when the alternative was clear she got onboard quickly.
    Once I have climbed over the clutter I scramble up the stairs to the cockpit. Pilots are planners and there is a good chance that one of them had a go bag stashed in the cockpit with them.
    Being inside provides a feeling of safety and security that is refreshing. For a moment I wonder why they were all outside waiting when they could have remained in the shelter of the plane. The bead of sweat that runs down my cheek and drips off my chin gives me the answer.
    Even in the cooling water the plane is exposed to the harsh rays of the sun. It’s aluminum skin absorbing the heat and creating an oven inside. My guess is that it’s over one hundred degrees in the cockpit. I can’t believe that we didn’t bring some thermometers to get accurate temperature readings.
    Slung over the back of the pilots seat is a brown camouflaged rucksack. It looks full and when I go to lift it I find that it is far heavier than I anticipated. I flip open the top and look inside. There are four bottles of water, several protein bars and a blanket tucked down one side. Peaking from the folds of the blanket I can see the black steel of a gun.
    The adults had a drawn out debate about bringing weapons. A simple majority did not feel that weapons made sense in space. Those in favor of weapons acknowledged concern about weapons in space but felt there may be a need for them on the new planet.
    In the end the weight argument won out and weapons were not packed as part of our supplies. I’m guessing that there was no stance on individual decisions to bring a weapon, or at least if there was it did not go heeded.
    I don’t know that meeting an alien race with lethal force would set the best foundation for civility. But I do know that being eaten by an alien on first encounter would not be a good way to start out on a new planet either.
    The decision to keep the gun in the rucksack is made with my self-preservation instinct winning out. I heft the pack onto my shoulders and set off down the stairs.
    As I wade through the water towards shore I can see Cassandra using her toe to move some debris aside. I’m not the hardiest outdoorsman but she is going to have to toughen up.
    “Seamus this is so gross. I can’t touch half of this stuff. They were just, you know, going anywhere they wanted.” Her nose is wrinkled and I can see her gagging while she scans the ground around her feet.
    “Here” I hand her bottled water once I am close enough. “Lets just get moving and catch up with the others. Being separated is a worse idea than leaving behind some spoiled food.”
    While she drinks I survey the ground and find out how right she was. We are standing in a veritable cesspool. My gag reflex kicks in and I vomit profusely, adding to the disgusting smattering