by S A Ison
His heart skipped a beat. The country was being attacked! Or, was it a Pythagoras Falls protocol? Or, a Pythagoras Fails protocol? Had they gotten that far? It didn’t matter, and Blake secured his fishing line and picked up his tackle box. He had to get home and fast. This had to have been an EMP hit. He saw black smoke billowing in the west, Miami airport. Planes were raining down and he needed to get home quickly.
Ω
Lewis and Clark National Forest, MT
Phoenix moaned; the pain was bringing him back to consciousness. It felt as though he were cut in half and there was a crushing tightness across his midsection. His brain was firing and his mind began the slow process of waking and understanding. Phoenix felt cold, so damned cold and his confused mind could not suss out the reason for it. He opened his eyes and realized that he was looking at the ground. It didn’t make sense and his mind had trouble comprehending what he saw. The ground was covered with snow and he saw large roots jutting up through the snow. The snow wasn’t white, but sooty, and he found that he was hanging at an angle, which accounted for the pain in his abdomen. He then realized that he was still in his seat and it hit him that the plane had crashed. He tried to look beside him, but his neck screamed in rebellion. His back felt as though it were on fire, like someone had tried to rip the muscles from his back away.
His numb hands sought the clasp to the seat belt. He was only about five feet off the ground and felt he wouldn’t sustain too much damage if he fell into the snow. Around him, he could hear crying and moaning. He caught the acrid smoke of burning wires, metal and plastic in his nostrils. The sinister hint of chard flesh as well, which clung to the back of his throat. That caused him to gag and he swallowed hard. His mouth filled with saliva and he spit, trying to rid his mouth of the sourness. His hands fumbled with the buckle and he managed to unclip the buckle. Phoenix fell to the ground and into the dirty snow. He just missed a jutting root with his head.
His whole body hurt, it felt as though his muscles had been torn apart, eliciting a low moan. He quickly looked up and grimaced as his neck spasmed. Lydia was hanging limp, her hands nearly blue, her long red hair obscuring her face. He staggered over to her and lifted his arms to cradle her and then one hand found her buckle and he unclipped her. He felt the dead weight of her sink into his arms. Lydia was limp as a dishrag and he cradled her carefully. His trembling fingers pushed away the hair and he could see blood seeping from her nose. Her lips were swollen, as though she’d bitten them.
Slipping a finger to her neck, Phoenix felt for a pulse and let out a heavy sigh when he found one. Lydia was alive. He held her protectively in his arms. He looked up at the man who’d been sitting by the window and then looked away. Along the side of the plane’s cabin, was along gagged rent, and sharp metal curled in through the plastic wall. Half the man’s face had been torn off, one eyeball resting on his bloody cheek. The lower jaw hanging down and the blood frozen from the protruding tongue. Phoenix looked beside him; the other row held three people. He carried Lydia’s light form over to another tree, about twenty feet away from the wreckage. Looking back at the wreckage, his mouth fell open. The destroyed fuselage was suspended, held by two massive conifers. Going back to where their seats were, he pulled and tugged at the overhead bin and the door sprang opened and the contents fell out. He grabbed his flannel shirt and put it on, feeling a shiver. Phoenix was unsure if it was the cold or shock.
He then retrieved his coat and took it and placed the coat over Lydia. His body was beginning to warm with the activity. He dug into the coat’s large pockets and pulled out his gloves. He then pulled out his phone and tried to turn it on, but the phone didn’t energize. He cursed softly and returned the phone into his back pocket. He put the gloves on and went back and gathered Lydia’s bag, and his backpack. He took those over and laid them beside her. He double checked her and then tucked the coat around her and turned back to the people in the adjacent row. The man in the aisle seat was dead, one of his legs had been ripped off from the hip. In the middle seat, a young man, perhaps in his twenties hung limp and Phoenix reached to feel for a pulse. The young man moaned; his long blond hair bloody. A head wound, Phoenix thought.
As best he could, Phoenix levered the man and took the weight of him as he unbuckled the man from his seat. Still on his shoulder, Phoenix carried the man over to where he’d placed Lydia. He set the man beside her and rechecked Lydia. Her large brown eyes fluttered open and then he saw the startle fear. He tried to smile at her but failed.
“You’re alive Lydia. Just sit here and get warm. I’m going to see if I can help some of these people.”
“Thank you.” She said and her face crumbled into tears and her eyes slanted over his shoulder at the devastation.
“I’m going to put this guy under the coat with you, so you can share body heat. It’s pretty cold out. If he comes to, tell him to stay put. Anything hurt really bad? I didn’t see or feel any broken bones on you.” Phoenix questioned, squatting in front of her, his hand reached out and gently pushed the auburn hair back.
“Just my face. I’m not sure what I hit.” She said thickly.
“Maybe my big fat head.” He smiled slightly then, bringing a slight smile to her swollen lips. He shoved the blond man beside her and lifted the side of his coat and then covered the unconscious man up. Phoenix turned away and went back to the plane. The wrecked fuselage shuddered as a gust of wind shook the massive evergreens, sending a cascade of snow and debris down from the plane. The destroyed fuselage was roughly a twenty-foot section. The back half of the plane missing, along with the wings and engines. His mind abruptly turned away from the thought of the toddler, who had been jumping in the seat, unrestrained. He knew that child was dead and he swallowed the sorrow down.
The wreckage was roughly at a thirty-degree angle. He’d have to climb his way up, to see who was alive. Near the top of the wreckage at the far end, the entire structure was burned. Even the ceiling of the fuselage was scorched, along with the seats and floor. Acrid black smoke was billowing up, meandering through the heavy boughs. Phoenix caught his seat and pulled himself up, using the substructure as a ladder. His neck and back screamed in pain. He hissed low in pain and gritted his teeth. Phoenix had never had whiplash, but he figured he had it now. He just hoped he didn’t have internal injuries, from the belt holding him in place.
Reaching the next row, he reached up and opened the overhead compartment and pulled all the contents out and let them fall below him. They were going to need clothing, because Lydia and the blond man were severely underdressed for the cold. The canopy of the trees kept direct sunlight out and Phoenix wasn’t sure what the temperatures were, but he was shivering. It wasn’t freezing, but it was close enough. At night, he knew that the temperature would fall below freezing. He hoped that the smoke still rising from the wreckage would alert someone as to their whereabouts. He wondered as he moved upward, where the little black box was located and if it were now sending out a beacon or signal.
He had no idea where they were, what location, what state the plane had crashed. He hoped they were somewhere in Washington. There were enough evergreens around them. There was no one in the row behind his seat, so he moved cautiously up. In the next row all three passengers were dead, the window seat passenger had been decapitated. Whatever had cut through the skin of the plane had also taken out the man in this row and his own row. The other two looked to have had their necks broken, their eyes wide open in surprise. Phoenix lifted his hand and opened the storage compartment and sent down the carry-on and coats. One coat looked like it would fit Lydia.
The next row held a teenager, a girl. She was unconscious and in the middle seat. No one was with her. He carefully slipped his hand under her neck; she was warm and he felt a pulse. She moaned but she didn’t regain consciousness. He moved his body inward, squeezing between the seats. Using his legs to wedge himself. When he flipped the clasp to the seatbelt, the girl fell forward, onto his shoulder. It was a precarious
balancing act. She was light, but her body was slack. He moved slowly down, and nearly dropped her.
When he got to the ground, he picked up a coat and went over to Lydia. She looked better and was sipping on water, her bag sitting in her lap. Phoenix gently laid the girl beside Lydia. He looked over to the blond man. The man was cradling his head. He had a bandana pressed to his forehead, with a large snowball pressed against the wound. The man looked up and his light blue eyes were filled with pain and confusion.
“I’m not sure how hurt she is. If you could check her out and wrap her up in the coat, that would be good.” Phoenix said, handing over the coat.
“Bless her little heart. How are you going to get others down? The higher you go, the more dangerous it will be.” Lydia worried.
“I’m gonna go through the carry-on and see if I can tie a few things together, you know, to make a rope. I almost dropped her.” He panted, trying to get his breath back. The muscles in his chest and back were rebelling. Lydia lifted the water bottle and he took it gratefully. He took several swallows.
“Thanks, I’ll also send down water bottles that are in the seat netting. I don’t know when help will come. There’s a lot of smoke rising, so hopefully, someone will come soon.” Phoenix said, wiping his face and looking around the forest. He could now detect the bird life that usually abound in forests and woodlands. He looked into the trees and saw chickadees darting from branch to branch. At the base of trees, he saw dark eyed juncos hoping around the snow, pecking at invisible things.
Phoenix looked at his watch, the face was cracked. The second hand didn’t move. He let out a sigh, then grunted, irritated. It was broken, he also noticed that his hands were bruised and scratches crisscrossed the tops of his hands. They’d been about an hour out of Seattle, so he guesstimated that it was roughly early afternoon, though he didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious. There was a small worry that he had a concussion, and his hand went to the large lump at the back of his head. There hadn’t been any blood at least.
Turning, he walked back over to the wreckage and opened several of the bags. He pulled out long-sleeved shirts and began to tie them together. He found a small knife in one of the bags and used that to cut up a pair of jeans and used that to make the rope longer. Looping the rope, he set it about his shoulders and began to climb once more. At each row, he emptied the overhead compartment. Several compartments were already opened and emptied. He figured something from the compartments must have hit him, or someone flying past him. He shivered at the thought.
One row he reached; he could see a woman’s legs beneath the row in front of her. Both legs broken, compound fractures and wedged beneath the metal framework. He looked up and saw that she was wedged between the seats and she was alive. There was no way to pull her from the seats, the long bones of her legs wedged her tight. Her face was pale, her lips blue from cold. She tried to speak, but was having a hard time breathing. There was no way he could save her. If she could hold on for rescuers, they would have the cutting tools to help her and cut her free.
He smiled softly to her and reached a hand to hold her cold hand.
“I can’t move you, but someone should be here soon to help you.”
The woman stared into his eyes and he saw that she understood, but didn’t reply, only giving a slight nod. He squeezed her hand gently, then let go of her hand and moved on. The next row were two dead women, both impaled by a large jagged piece of metal structure. It had skewered them both through the abdomen, coming in from the side. He saw that one of the women had boots on and he thought of Lydia’s shoes.
“I’m sorry, but my friend needs boots more than you do. God bless you and I hope you didn’t suffer.” He said softly as he untied the boots from the woman. He thought they might be a little big on Lydia, but that would be okay. She could put on a couple pairs of socks. He carefully tied the boots together and slung them around his neck. He hoped that Lydia didn’t baulk at wearing the boots. He climbed higher, looking back over his shoulder, he was pretty high up. If he fell, he’d break a limb or his neck.
The next few rows were empty, and he pulled water bottles out and let them slide down to the ground as he went. He was now getting close to the burned area and came across a man who was sitting by the window. He was burned badly, his hair completely burned away, his face charred and blackened. The man didn’t have eyelids and he looked at Phoenix. Then Phoenix realized the poor man was still alive. The man’s lips were also burned away and Phoenix wondered why the man wasn’t dead. He could not even fathom the excruciating pain the man was in.
“Help is coming. Hang tight sir.” He lied, and he hoped the man would die soon. He moved up one more row but all the occupants were crisped and melted to their seats. He levered his body and reached for the other side. He would work his way down from there. The seats on that side of the plane held passengers who were melted as well. He gagged when he caught the scent of burned flesh, mixed with melted plastic. The fat beneath their skin had bubbled out, like cracklin. He shoved that thought out of his mind and gagged again. He wiped at his tearing eyes. He moved his way carefully down. Emptying more overhead compartments.
He found a baby, dead, wedged under a seat. He felt the prickle of tears and moved down quickly. He came across a man, he looked to be Japanese. He was in the aisle seat, there was a woman beside him in the middle seat, but she was missing her head. He grimaced and lifted a hand to the man’s neck. The man was warm and he found a pulse. Wedging his one leg on the opposite row, he tied a kind of harness around the slender man. Tying the cloth rope to the brackets of the seats, Phoenix swung his body out of the way as he unclasped the man from his seat.
The man fell sideways, but the harness held him. Phoenix then played out the rope, lowering the man carefully. Phoenix froze when the wreckage groaned loudly and shifted. Bits of snow and debris rained down on him. Phoenix’s heart slammed into his chest. He hoped that the fuselage wouldn’t collapse on top of him. He held his breath and waited, but nothing happened. Maybe it was the wind that was shifting the wreckage?
As he lowered the unconscious man, he emptied the overhead compartments and also threw down more water bottles. Several rows down, he found two men who were dead, they too were decapitated. He moved farther down. He next found a woman, one of her arms had been ripped off. She was dead. More rows were empty. It seemed a lot of people hadn’t kept their seatbelts buckled. Though for those that did keep their belts on, their bodies were kept them in place, they’d been killed anyway. He was getting closer to the bottom and found no more living people. It would appear that there had only been five survivors from this part of the plane.
Phoenix wondered if the pilot, co-pilot and the people of first class survived. They’d broken off much higher, but Phoenix didn’t know where they would have landed. It was the same with the section over the wings and the tail section. There could be survivors there, though if the fire at the other end was any indication, then perhaps not. There was no rhyme or reason as to their survival. And if help didn’t come soon, they might all just die anyway, from exposure. He didn’t know if he had a concussion, but his head hurt like crazy. He would take something once he got this man settled. Then he’d take stock of what they had.
He lowered the unconscious man onto the ground. He could feel the cold wind press against his hot face. He’d worked up a sweat. He looked over at Lydia and saw that the girl was conscious and sipping water. Her brown eyes large and her skin ashen. He hated to be the one to tell her that she was alone. If her parents had been with her, they were gone. He bent to untie the man when he caught something on the wind, a sound of some kind. He stood and looked around. He cocked his head this way and that and then he heard it again. It was muffled, but he could hear something.
TWO
Castle Town, MT
Miles swung the ax once more. His mind was on his father, Jack. His father had been an airline pilot. He worked out of JFK international airport. Seeing the doomed a
ircraft had brought back painful memories. Miles had managed to push them down for years now. Things long and best forgotten. Yet, the box was open and now the memories flooded him, like a cresting tide. His impromptu exodus away from New Mexico.
Before he’d started the Pythagoras Project, Miles had visited his father in New York City, and the two men had spent hours catching up and talking about old times.
“Pops, I’m about to head into a new project. I’m not sure what it all entails, but it is extremely classified. I’ve been thinking a lot and I remember when you told me to plan and have an exit strategy. Well, if ever things go sideways, you know for any reason what so ever, I might not be able to come home.”
“Is this project dangerous, Miles?” Jack asked, concern stamped across his craggy face.
“I honestly don’t know. But, if something happens, and you get a post card with the words I love you, Hokey Poky, you’ll know it’s me and I had to disappear. But know I’m safe.” He and his father used to dance the hokey poky with Miles’ grandmother, and it was a childhood reference only his father would know. When Miles had driven away from the black site, he’d gone to a rented storage unit in Chaparral and retrieved his Harley-Davidson hog, a leather saddlebag filled with cash, IDs, a change of clothing and a Glock 19, several boxes of 9mm shells and a post card with the words written on it. The post card had been picked up in Charleston, South Carolina ten years before and kept in a plastic bag, for just such an occasion.
Plan A, B, C and D. His father had taught him well and it had saved his life. But it had broken Miles’ heart. His father knew he was safe, but he had no idea where he was. That had been fifteen years ago. He didn’t know if his father was still alive. Miles thought he might know if his father had passed, perhaps feel that loss at some fundamental level, but he just didn’t know. He was sure that the government watched his father for years after his disappearance. How could they not? Miles had walked away and disappeared with national secrets. Deadly secrets.