Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “Is the Drone following us?”

  “What?”

  I press my cheek on the window to the right, then the left, which is harder as it’s angled up. I don’t see the Drone, but why else would my phone still be jammed? Not only did it lead us out here to drown, it’s following us so it will be harder to find the bodies. Just like the Chinese pilots. My epiphany ends there as the engine bobbles again.

  “I need to put it down before the fuel runs out.”

  “Why, what about gliding?”

  “I’ll have more control under power.”

  “You say that like it’s a good thing, but my takeaway is that we are going to die quicker than anticipated,” I complain, the engine coughing again.

  “You seem to have a keen understanding of our situation.”

  “You must have done simulated water landings?” I suggest. “Just belly us in like Sully on the East River.”

  “Can’t, this plane has fixed landing gear.”

  “So?”

  “The wheels are down, so we flip the second they touch water.”

  This resonates, causing me to recall what Hal said about the sinking airliners. The landing gear were deployed after the water landing. The term water landing is like putting lipstick on a frog. This is going to be a crash landing and the water is just along for the ride.

  “My understanding is getting keener all the time,” I remark, shoving my cell in my pants pocket. Is this thing equipped with a life raft?”

  “You’re guess is as good as mine. Have a look behind me.”

  I fish through the debris behind the seats. This is like an episode of Hoarders. Behind Clay’s seat, under a trash bag filled with fast food refuse, I find a yellow square duffle the size of a child’s lunchbox. It’s marked RAFT in stenciled grey spray paint. There is also a thick orange plastic bag drawn at the top by a string. I’ll assume that’s supplies. The RAFT cube has a red tee handle on the top. I dig them out and cross my arms over my chest, hugging them. The space seems to shrink and I am certain about being trapped in here as the plane sinks.

  “Guy’s a real collector,” I sigh. “There is a raft though.”

  “He lives at the oceans edge,” Clay advises. “Maybe he flies over water all the time.”

  “If I inflate it now, will the wreckage float?”

  “Funny girl.”

  The engine stalls and Clay tips us sideways, still hoping to draw fuel down from the left wing tank. Nothing happens and he gives the right wing a try, causing me to bang my head hard on the door. The engine sputters, then comes back. We angle down and it feels like we are picking up speed.

  “What happens when we hit?” I shout, but it sounds like a scream coming from my lips.

  “If we don’t die,” he jokes loudly. “Swim like hell.”

  “Not funny.”

  “In the Air Force, we have a saying,” he frowns, fighting the controls. “A good landing is one the pilot can walk away from.”

  “Seems as if the Air Force had a pretty low bar.”

  “They encouraged to try for what they call a great landing.”

  “And that is?”

  “A landing in which you can fly the plane again,” he forces a smile as if he’s trying to lighten the mood.

  “Looks as if we will have to settle for good.”

  He nods, looking out his side window, then mutters something under his breath. I can’t make it out so I tap his shoulder and shrug. He shakes his head as if it wasn’t important. Maybe it was a prayer.

  “You need to pull the latch and push your door open before we hit the water.”

  “Before?” I balk. “Am I jumping out?”

  “No, when we hit, the frame might bend in a way that pins the door closed.”

  “That would be bad,” I groan, trying to remain calm. “For the record, you’re not getting your checklist safety badge today.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” he huffs, fighting the stick.

  “If I survive, I plan on writing a strongly worded letter to the people who monitor this sort of thing.”

  “Possibly, I could record a PSA on the topic,” he fires back, the lines of his face hardening by the second.

  The water rushes by under the wings close enough that feels like we are in a cigar boat running cocaine between Columbia and Florida. He raises the nose, slowing us, but making my seat shudder under me.

  “Please tell me you have a hot pink bikini on underneath your clothes,” he exhales, as we tip to the right. “We might be out here awhile.”

  “Thought you were married?”

  “Just searching for an upside.”

  “Get us down alive and I’ll wear whatever you like.”

  “And there it is,” he smirks, then his eyes widen as if he sees a ghost.

  Initially, it feels as if we are floating to a stop as he raises the nose and slows, keeping the wheels out of the water. Maybe we will just drop in? Suddenly we are upside down and the sound of metal shearing off fills the small space. We tumble end over end, then I am struck in the head, the world fades slowly to black. Better to be unconscious if drowning is on the menu.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My eyes flicker open looking at glass. Water covers the left edge making my door look like the side of an aquarium. We are right side up, but listing to my side far enough that water covers most of the glass. Panicking, I jerk on the handle frantically. I didn’t open the door before we hit. At first it sticks, reminding me of my own car, but then water pours in on me when it pushes out an inch or so. Once the water rushes in, the plane shifts, lifting my door halfway out of the water. Throwing it open, I push the raft cube and orange bag out, then force myself up. I have to rock back and forth to get my soaking wet blazer through the hole, then haul my legs out. At least the stupid wing strut is gone and not in my way. I turn sideways on the slippery fuselage, then plunge into the sea.

  The right wing is missing completely, torn off in a ragged wound along the side. One blade of the grey propeller is bent back over the nose as if it were hugging the cowl. Bubbles pour out all around as it takes on water. The plane shifts again, the swell pushing me away.

  The weight of my clothes threatens to drown me as I paddle frantically. The left wing rises out of the water, then the Cessna tips over. Inside the front windshield, which is partially submerged, I see Clay, who appears unconscious. How is it that I forgot to look for him first?

  I paddle like a mad woman trying to get to him. Swimming through the bubbles, my hand touches the Lexan windshield. He wakes slowly as I thump my fist on the plastic. A huge whoosh of bubbles washes me a few feet away as the tail section tips down. When it does, his hand slaps on the inside of the plastic.

  “No, no, no.”

  I kick wildly to draw closer, but the nose rolls over and goes down all at once. What did I think I could do to stop it? My fingers brush the left wingtip as it slips away. Before I can take a deep breath, I am drawn under in the suction that follows the sinking plane. Unable to make any headway to the surface, I pause and remove my coat. It slips away and I kick as hard as possible, fighting to survive. My precious photos were in that blazer.

  Absolutely positive I will never breath fresh air again, I am pleasantly surprised when my head breaks the surface. I take deep breaths and kick, but my shoes are heavy. I fill my lungs and drop under long enough to peel them off. Once under the surface, I see the plane well below, but seeming to hang there waiting for the next air pocket to pop. Maybe he can get out and swim for it. I poke my head out of the sea to refill my lungs, then plunge my face in searching for Clay. I am met with a rush of bubbles, driving me back to the surface. Another try reveals only a dark shadow slipping away. I can’t believe he’s gone.

  There isn’t any time to absorb the loss, my body shivering unconsciously. I paddle around the debris field searching for the raft. I am surprised to see what looks like the rest of the right wing bobbing far off the left, but I can’t be completely sure what it is. My
search takes upwards of ten minutes, but I find the yellow cube and pull the tee handle. Gas explodes out, filling the raft. It opens on top of my head, pushing me under. I struggle to my right, then come up and cling to the side. A black rubber fitting has a nylon rope running around the outside edge, and I dangle from it, my heart racing. It just feels good to stop kicking.

  Drawing on strength from some unknown place, I pull myself into the raft and lay on my back gasping. The sun warms my face, but in the aftermath of today’s struggle, I can’t get the image of Clay’s hand on the inside of the canopy out my mind. He was married. It feels like I should cry, but instead an ever-growing sense of helplessness creeps over me.

  As if I was watching a movie projector, flashes of Jesse’s tiny coffin sitting alone at the funeral drown me in sorrow. As the memory spools out of my head, Glen’s pained face turns away from me, one hand on the white coffin lid. His frustration at not being there to save Jessie drove him mad. And I just lost my only pictures of them. Somewhere below me, the blazer moves in the current. The only possessions in this world that matter to me, trapped in the pocket. I clench my eyes shut, trying to force my thoughts to the present. If I allow my depression to overcome me in this situation, my prospects are grim. Think about something else. Think about anything else.

  “How long,” I cough, digging a hand in my pants pocket, “does it take to die of exposure?”

  Pulling my phone out, I flip it open and gaze upon a miracle. The tiny screen glows orange, indifferent to my predicament, but there still is no signal. If the sea water had damaged it, I doubt the screen would light up. What happened to the signal?

  “Seriously,” I howl, scanning the sky overhead for the Drone.

  Above me only blue sky and puffy clouds hover. I lay on my back with the phone clutched on my chest watching. Given the choice between going back to the Cape or waiting for me to die it would seem like leaving was the better option. Either that or just fly away and disappear. Why does it care if I die or not?

  “Vindictive much?” I shout at the empty sky.

  When no answer comes I become even more sullen, crossing my arms over my chest staring blankly into the sky. I wish for the orange bag of supplies. Or whatever was inside. I doze and wake randomly, checking the phone each time. It’s cold overnight, but more so from my wet clothes than any drop in temperature. The signal remains absent and I care a tiny bit less as the night wears on. I try to cry over Clay or even the lost pictures, but fail miserably. It would appear I am devoid of emotions.

  …

  I awake slowly, still on my back. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth, my throat dry as sand. A headache throbs; putting a hand to my temple reveals a lump the size of a golf ball. Possibly the head pain is not a symptom of dehydration. Not yet at least. I roll over and feel a twinge in my upper arm. Pulling back the tee shirt sleeve gives me a nice view of a purple and black bruise. A cursory pat down of my person reveals several other sore spots, but no serious injuries.

  From my knees, I scan the horizon, but it’s nothing but rolling waves in every direction. What did I expect? A slight breeze catches my matted hair. When I try and run a hand through it, the salt water combined with the tangles catch my fingers like a net, trapping them. I’m picking at it when I catch sight of the orange bag floating fifteen yards or more from the raft. Will wonders never cease? I paddle with one arm over the side for two minutes, then realize it’s having little or no effect. The huge raft would require a larger paddle, probably more than one.

  “Plan B,” I grunt, peeling my tee shirt over my head.

  I remove my jeans, forced to bounce up on my back to get the wet denim over my hips. After adjusting my undergarments, I slip over the side and begin swimming. At first the water feels cold, but almost at once, a warm sensation covers my skin. I go hard for about five minutes, then paddle in place to see how far the bag is. A tremor rolls over me when I see it’s still ten yards off. Turning around, the raft seems dangerously distant as well. Clearly this course of action was not given the proper amount of forethought. Stupid decision by me, then a worse idea pops into my head. I watch way too many movies.

  “Sharks,” I shout, rolling over and swimming as fast as I can for the bag.

  With renewed purpose, I reach it. Scanning the horizon, I am able to find the raft. I hook the string that closes it around my shoulder, then start off. I swim until my arms burn, then doggie paddle, trying to locate the raft. Swells in the ocean have made it impossible to see over them. I am reminded of the swells that lifted the skiff in the Indian Ocean last week. At least I was dry that time. I wait for a swell to pass then search the horizon on the upswing. I have to bob there four times before the raft is revealed. In a shocking turn, it’s directly behind me, or at least I thought that was behind me.

  “Would sharks bother eating someone this stupid,” I shout at the sky, then start off in the new direction.

  After only a few minutes, the tentacles of fear creep into my brain. It’s not that all of this isn’t scary, but my arms burn and I stop swimming, even though my brain is screaming swim. I float there gasping for air. My legs feel numb, my arms cold. I am going to drown with the raft in sight. I gauge it to be only five yards, but now it’s drifting away as I float, my chin bobbing at sea level. I beg my arms to move, but they barley wiggle enough to keep my mouth above water. Rolling over, I manage to keep my face out of the water, the sky looming cobalt blue overhead.

  As I flounder a shadow passes over. I struggle to see, but it’s gone past me now. I lay still and wait. The waves raise me up and then lower me. I hold air in my lungs, which makes me almost buoyant, then struggle when I have to exhale. Without warning, the Drone passes over, high up in the sky. It moves by, arcing slightly as it passes. The bastard it still waiting for me to die.

  “Not if you’re going to enjoy it,” I snarl, rolling on my tummy to search for the raft.

  I turn in the water, but get smacked in the face instead. The raft bobs next to me and I toss one hand up to grab the rope. That’s the first good break I’ve had on this misadventure. Even after I throw the orange bag in, it takes me an hour to climb completely inside the raft. Sharks be dammed.

  I lay in the sun with one hand over my eyes. Every so often I peek and observe the Drone passing by. A check of my phone, left in the raft during my ill-advised swim, reveals nothing has changed. There is no signal as long as my tormentor remains overhead.

  By midday what strength I can muster returns. Forgotten in my collapse, I untie the orange bag and spread the contents out. A tiny flare gun gives me the urge to shoot at the Drone, but it’s too high, besides I might need it later. A flint, that’s useless without something to burn, and a tiny Swiss army knife are also included.

  “Good for slitting my wrists.”

  There’s a round tin a few inches wide, and one deep, with something resembling a biscuit inside. I’m afraid to eat it with my mouth this dry, but choke it down after my tummy complains. It’s abysmal tasting, leaving me wondering if it wasn’t intended as food.

  “Did I just eat the first-aid cream?” I cough, bits of white powder sticking to my thighs as I kneel.

  I can’t figure out why there’s food, if that’s what it was, but no water. Don’t they have canned water for this sort of emergency? I puzzle over this for some time, watching the Drone overhead then I realize it’s not water landing specific. The orange bag was if the plane went down, not that it goes down in water. Canned water probably weighs too much to haul around all the time. I lay back flat and watch the Drone, using one hand to shield the sun. Nothing to do but wait.

  By late afternoon my red thighs and stomach inform me of yet another mistake. Given my lack of a tan, I have allowed myself to get sunburned. I fluff out the now dry tee shirt mostly dry jeans, slipping them over my sensitive skin. The button on the jeans won’t come close to reaching the hole, but vanity and fashion aren’t that important at present. If I am out here awhile ,I am liable to lose some w
eight. Glass half full.

  I lick my lips and feel a crack on my upper lip that’s either from wind burn or thirst. The more I play with it the more it throbs. All around me the salty sea sings a siren song, inviting me to drink. I run my tongue over the crack in my lip and frown. I am suddenly reminded of cigarettes. If a genie flashed into existence and offered me either a bottle of water of a pack of cigarettes, which would I choose?

  “The water,” I muse. “Unless the smokes come with a pack of matches.”

  The Drone passes over, but it’s bigger now.

  “Not bigger,” I remark, laying down to watch it. “Lower, my stalker is trying to get a better look.”

  I watch it pass back and forth, then as it moves into the setting sun there is a glint on one wing. I wait patiently for it to pass again and there’s a small dot of light when it’s directly between the sun and my position. I try to work out if it’s a window or reflective area for a half dozen passes, then decide it’s not.

  “Definitely a bullet hole,” I proclaim, raising my arm and pretending to shoot at the Drone overhead. “No wonder you’re so pissed at me.”

  …

  The second night is colder, but that might be due in part to starvation or dehydration. I cower in the corner of the raft thinking of Clay. The hand pounding the canopy haunts me. This memory has replaced some dark thoughts I have been carrying around with me for years. Like retrieving Jessie’s personal belongings from the crushed remains of our minivan. I can’t honestly say I mind the change. It’s not like Clay was family.

  I am drawn from sleep by wind. It’s not cold, but almost a heated rush of air. I roll over, covering my face, basking in the sensation of warmth. I linger there until I hear the noise. A low electrical hum buzzing all about me. Did it just start or was I too deep in sleep to notice? I flip over onto my back, squinting into the rising sun. The Drone is hovering twenty feet over the raft. I wasn’t aware it had the capability to hover, but it clearly can.