I've got to be dead. There's no other explanation.
Fire. Screaming. The ocean. Then... nothing.
What in God's name happened? Why can't I feel my legs!? Oh, that's why, they're smashed by the seat in front of me.
I tried to push the seat pinning my legs down, and then, as my vision focused, I noticed the fire. The metal tube - an airplane? - was engulfed in flame. I could smell bodies, burning flesh. It smelled like a pig roast. I could see someone, a redheaded woman, outside the tiny round window, shuffling off into the jungle.
"Lady! Hey, lady! Help me!" she didn't hear me over the roar of the flames.
Luckily for me, I was in the only section of the plane that hadn't caught on fire, and near the break where it had snapped in two, probably on impact. Water lapped over my crushed legs, getting in my shoes and socks.
Shoot, I thought. There go my shoes. I could feel the heat from the flames reaching hungrily back for me from the front of the plane, where I could see at least one flaming body, probably the pilot, still strapped in. I groped blindly under my seat for my carry-on bag. I pulled it out of the water and fished around for my seatbelt cutter. I sliced the restraining belt and began again to push the seat again. Eventually I got free just enough to fall sideways into the salty water.
The smoke was finally getting to me, so I crawled through the water, keeping low, then ran the rest of the way up the beach, my knees sending jolts of pain up my legs with each footfall. Turning back to look at the wreckage, I was, unsurprisingly, not fazed. I'd seen my share of carnage in my life, and of death. The only thing that worried me was, how did I get on that little plane, how did it crash, and why had the conditions been just so perfect for me to survive?
I remembered the redhead stumbling to the jungle. I had no idea what was going on, but I was sure as heck gonna get some answers, and maybe she had some. I limped off after her sandy footprints.