From night till dawn Gwen had probably added another few inches of tears into the Atlantic. As the sun broke over the horizon the alcohol in her system was replaced by the mother of all hang overs. The survivors had gotten little to no sleep except for one or two. Gwen had been watching the Middle Eastern looking gentleman for a while now. She remembered him from the plane. He was the one back in economy class, the one with the look of serenity in him as all hell was breaking loose. Had he been trained to be able cope in these sort of situations she wondered.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"No signal."</span>One of the other survivors announced.<span style="font-style: italic"> "That's it then, no one knows we're here. Fuck!"</span><br/><br/>The survivor was a middle aged, overweight American. The stereotypical US male as seen by the rest of the world.<br/><br/>Gwen spoke up, her voice hoarse from the screaming and sobbing<br/><br/>"I...I'm sure the plane sent a mayday signal or something."<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"Then why haven't we been rescued by now sweet cheeks. Huh?"</span><br/><br/>Before Gwen could offer a reply the fat man pointed at Hamza.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"And you Mr Taliban. Why you guarding that pack like that. What you got in there? Food? Water? Give me the bag."</span><br/><br/>The man stood and unsteadily made his way across the very short distance to where Hamza was praying. He was intent on taking whatever was in the bag. He hadn't been through Operation Desert Storm just so this Arab could hoard all the good stuff.