With Eyes Turned Skyward

by Gregory Stravinski

  “We need a new plan,” I say to the wind.

  My statement echoes off of the deserted alleyway, greeted only by the hiss and pop of the fire behind me. Cass nods into the water, slowly pulling herself up onto her haunches. She pushes back a sopping wisp of hair as she looks down the road, trying to plot our next move.

  I wait for the deafening engine of a low flying plane to pass before I offer, “If we make it to the dockyard, we can still offer to crew for any remaining ships.”

  Cass extends her arm towards the port. “And what chance do we have of there being any ships left by the time we get there?”

  I draw a breath in through my nose, weighing our options. “What chance do we have of surviving if we just sit here?” I ask.

  Cass rubs her hands down her face before standing up. “You’re right,” she says.

  I stumble a bit, struggling to get my legs under me. My balance is still off. It must be a result of hitting my head after Cass tackled me, compounded with the ringing in my ear from the gunshot. Nausea wells up and over me, forcing my hands to my knees.

  I feel Cass’s hand caress my shoulder. “Do you think you’re still able to run?” she asks.

  I’m slowly getting her back again. Whatever steel barrier she put up this morning is beginning to dissolve as we recognize the goal of escaping on the Artemis is an impossible one. The warmth of her touch is a quick-acting serum that flows through my shoulder and clears my head.

  I blink a few times, straightening back up for good measure. “I’m ready to move,” I say.

  We grab our packs, shuffling towards the docking bays. They’re still too far off in the distance. I’m glad to leave this place behind. No one else needs to know what I’ve done. As we pass intersection after intersection, I notice our surroundings becoming starker in their appearance. Apartments and markets give way to a barracks and training grounds. Shipwreck’s orange emblem adorns each corner. The prow of the beached 17th century galleon points us to our destination. We’ve reached the military district.

  Before I can work this discovery into our strategy, a door bursts open to our right.

  Three men in orange striped uniforms clamber out into the street. The sheer surprise is enough for me to draw my weapon, leveling it at the group. Before I can think, all three draw their side arms on me. Out of the corner of my eye, Cass’s steady hand clutches the dead pilot’s pistol, ready to fire.

  I lick my lips, trying bring my senses back. “Are you Shipwreck Militia?” I ask.

  The three pilots glance at one another before the one in front speaks up. “432nd Minutemen. Who’re you?”

  I turn my arm patch towards them without lowering my gun. “Gold Squadron, U.S.S. Artemis.”

  “What the fuck are you doing drawing a gun on us?” the dark-skinned man in the back barks.

  Stunned, I lower my weapon. “I . . . I’m sorry. I got ambushed by the last downed pilot we met. He took a few shots at us before we were able to subdue him.”

  The wing leader clips his gun back in, closing the distance between us. “Did you catch the emblem he flew under?” he asks.

  The tailfin flashes to mind. “Yeah, it was a wave. A grey wave over a blue background,”, I remember, crooking my arm. “Looked like it was cresting.”

  The wing leader’s face contorts. “Those fuckers!”

  “Who are they?” I ask.

  The pilot in the back walks up, joining his wing leader alongside the other man. “Bastards call themselves The Cascade. We’ve been getting reports that they just pop up out of nowhere, take what they want, then vanish.”

  The wing leader’s getting impatient. “The Tower also says they’re shifting this way. They’ve been concentrating their forces on knocking out all our military installations. We’re next on that list.”

  Everything clicks: the wave, the ship, the shards.

  “Do you have planes?” I ask, grabbing the leader’s shoulder.

  The leader shrugs off my grip. “Yeah, do you think you can fly ‘em?”

  I nod.

  Cass steps up. “Where are they being housed?”

  The wing leader points down the road. “We’ve got a little ways to go, but our base is just past that steeple.”

  The third man steps forward. “Great, more pilots. Now let’s go! I swear to God I can hear it. . . . ”

  We all stop, straining our ears.

  Under all of the commotion above, a droning from the south creeps closer. It’s enough to make the five of us kick up clods of dirt as we turn, sprinting down the road. There’s no way we can out-run it. Cold sweat breaks out all over my body as I hear the ripping of earth from behind. The noise resembles the sound of a plow scraping over gravel, accompanied by intermittent eruptions. An orange striped warplane takes off in the distance, marking our destination. We’re getting close!

  Blue crawls over the cobblestones and siding of the buildings. I chance a look behind us and find myself staring straight into the bowels of Hell. Shards of grey metal rip from the ground, spiraling upwards into the hull of the dark ship. The front of its bow glides over us.

  We aren’t going to make it. This escape was doomed from the beginning.

  Debris spits up from the earth. Pebbles bounce, fliting past us as we run. I use the last of my energy fighting to stay ahead of the oblivion. The pebbles give way to rocks, and then chunks of granite as buildings burst apart around us.

  This is it.

  I grab hold of Cass, pulling her to the ground.

  “Make yourself small!” I yell over the deafening groan.

  The blue light deepens around us. Cass is about to protest, but instead curls into a ball against me. The other pilots keep running. A shard bursts next to us, through the center of the barracks. I shield Cass’s head as cement rains down. My back tenses, anticipating the jagged shrapnel from below.

  Instead, my body jerks up towards the sky. Cass’s arms flail, trying to protect her face as her body arches. A stone cuts her cheek as she abandons her defense, struggling with the clip of her belt. The metal! We’re being pulled into the stomach of the ship by our steel belongings.

  Cass flips herself over in midair, fighting against the magnetic current. I do the same. My bow broach rips loose from my throat, shooting towards the sky.

  There’s a snap.

  Cass falls from her magnetic grip, hitting the ground.

  I can’t get my belt loose! I struggle with the clip, but my body weight is bearing down on it, keeping me suspended. I twist around, looking for other options.

  Cass’s pack rockets past me. That’s the first step. Loosening my bag’s straps, I sacrifice all of our food and supplies in a bid for extra time.

  The belt buckle is the last restraint pulling me ever further from the ground, but my weight keeps the clasp firmly in place. Grasping around my hips, I search for a knife or something sharp. I find nothing. There’s one last option. The end of my gun strains against the holster as I pull it out. I almost lose my grip fighting to bring it level with my body.

  Kicking out my legs, I hook the barrel into the belt. I thrust my hips away, pulling the trigger as fast as I can. Three shots tear through the leather before slowing down and spiraling in an arc towards the ship above. One last thread remains, carrying me towards certain death. A final twist makes it give way.

  With a snap, the clasp snakes through my belt loops. Breaking free, it launches towards the sky, its tail flapping excitedly. The force of it spins me sideways, breaking my grip on the gun. It too whips skyward, finally free from my grasp. With nothing left to suspend me, the world rushes back up. Ten, twenty, thirty . . . forty feet.

  The dull impact is the last thing I feel.

  13

  Suffocation drags me back into consciousness. I try pulling in air, but sand and dust are the only options. Dirt weighs down on me as the ground churns. Hands grab around my chest, heaving me upward. Grabbing fistfuls of clay, I struggle against the earth’s attempt to consume me. Another sh
ard bursts through the ground next to me, pulling up ancient loam that’s never before seen the light of day. The resulting shower forces us back under the soil. Cass’s muffled gasps spark my consciousness, burning away the haze. I punch through the top layer of the earth, finding her hand. We swim our way to the top.

  Something explodes from below. My shin slams against rock, launching me from the ground. Kicking away, I hit the ground as the shard continues its spiraling path towards the dark ship.

  The impact knocks the wind out of me as a newly formed rock garden drinks in the blood trickling from the gash in my arm.

  I lie there, pummeled and bleeding.

  The sound of vomiting is the only thing giving me the strength to turn over. Cass lies on her side, throwing up our rich dinner from the night before. Grains of sand pour from her nose and mouth along with pieces of partially digested chicken. With the majority of it purged, she lies there shaking as the mixture trickles from the side of her mouth. The sea foam in her eyes turns to a frothy white. I’ve never seen that before.

  “Cass,” I whisper, kneeling next to her.

  She doesn’t respond.

  I pull out a handkerchief, dabbing the spittle from her face. Taking a free breath, I survey our surroundings. They look like nothing from before. We might as well be on the moon. Smoking ruins glow around us. A geyser erupts unchecked across the street. The distinct smell of raw sewage hangs in the air. It seems that the plumbing’s been ripped up from below. My eyes eventually come to rest on one of the Shipwreck pilots who joined us. He’s the only one. The others are nowhere to be found.

  The pilot digs at the gravel and rock. Even with his dark skin, I can see the blood. He’s torn off all of his finger nails digging through the wreckage with his bare hands. He doesn’t seem to notice, muttering frantically to no one in particular.

  A screech rises up from behind. I duck as a supply truck swerves around us. Grabbing her legs, I throw Cass out of the way as the truck rumbles past. Oil barrels bounce on its bed as it grinds to a stop next to the digging pilot.

  The driver rolls down the window. “James! James, is that you?”

  The pilot doesn’t respond.

  The trucker opens his door, stepping down the driver’s side. “James!” he yells.

  I say nothing. It’s probably better not to be noticed at this point.

  The trucker closes the space between James and himself. “C’mon man! We need to get to the extraction point. They just missed us, and that thing’s turning around. We don’t have time fo . . . “

  Before the trucker can say any more, he’s drowned out by the engines of a fighter overhead.

  Rounds skip up the pavement behind me.

  I throw myself over Cass, her body tightening up beneath me. A shatter of glass combines with the echoes of metal on metal as the windshield of the truck blows outward. The oil carrier must have made a pretty tempting target.

  Cass vomits up another fistful of sand from underneath me. “We need to get a ride,” she chokes out.

  I brush back a strand of her hair. “Do you think you can walk?”

  She fights to prop herself up on her arm. “I don’t have a choice.”

  I help her get to her feet. She’s pretty unsteady, but her balance gets stronger with each step. Her face is a mask of dirt.

  She blows a wave of sand from her nostril. “Ugh, I need a bath.”

  I manage the smallest of smiles before looking up to ask the driver for a ride. He won’t be much help to us though. The large red hole oozing from his side tells me he won’t be much help to anyone. His hat lies next to his body, crumpled forward with his face in the rubble. His eyes open and unblinking.

  His friend James doesn’t seem to notice. There doesn’t appear to be any progress with his hole either as his hands scrape dully at the bottom.

  “The truck’s still running,” Cass says evenly.

  She’s right. Other than a blown tire, some damage to the chassis, and a leaking oil barrel, the truck and its engine still sputter on. I nod, making my way past James. I try touching his shoulder to snap him out of his fixation, but he just bats my hand away.

  His mumbles turn into shouts.

  With his shouting growing louder, Cass pushes me towards the truck. “We don’t have time for this,” she says.

  We leave James flinging dirt and screaming. The illogical part of me hopes he finds his friends, the more grounded one realizes we have more immediate issues to tackle. I pause as we reach the cab, fidgeting uncomfortably.

  “What’s wrong?” Cass asks, moving around to the passenger’s side.

  “I . . . ah, I um . . . never learned how to drive,” I admit sheepishly.

  Being born and raised in the sky doesn’t provide very many opportunities to pilot vehicles that don’t have wings.

  “Do you think you can drive it?” I ask.

  Cass nods, hobbling over to me. I help her up into the driver’s seat. Closing the door, she leans out through the open window. Adjusting her mirror, she spits into her hand and wipes the smeared blood off of her face.

  “Hey, we all have our talents. We’re going to need yours a lot more if we can find a plane,” she offers.

  I let out an uncomfortable grunt. It was supposed to be one of agreement. My rib cage has already taken enough abuse for one day.

  As I slam my door, Cass throws the clutch forward and stamps on the accelerator. I clear the windshield shards off my seat while dark, black smoke billows from the exhaust. The truck lurches forward, shifting the barrels in the back.

  Straining my eyes, I pick out an orange windsock billowing in the distance.

  “That’s where we need to go!” I point.

  Windsocks mean aircraft. Aircraft mean we can get home. If we can’t find a fighter before the Ark’s next pass, we won’t survive a second burying. The dark trails of smoke rising from the hangar do little to kindle hope.

  Cass nods in acknowledgement, throwing her weight into the oversized steering wheel.

  As we barrel down what’s left of the road, a triangle of glass embeds itself in the side of my index finger.

  “Ah, fuck!” I growl in spite of myself.

  Balancing my arm on the side panel of the door, I carefully pluck the glass out of my hand. Examining the bloodied piece, my focus shifts to the trucks side view mirror. The dark warship fills its reflection, pointed in our direction.

  “Ah fuck . . .” I repeat. “Is this as fast as we can go?” I shout over the din.

  “Yeah, I see it!” Cass responds.

  Approaching the guard house, I concoct plausible stories to gain us access to the base, but as we draw closer, I realize there’s no need. The whole building’s engulfed in flame. As we pass the destroyed pillbox, the heat licks at our faces through the window. The rest of the airfield’s all but abandoned.

  There has to be something left, some way to get out. Looking at the row of hangars, I notice one with its roof is still intact.

  “Cass! The fourth one on the left. There’s gotta be something in there,” I say.

  Cass responds by wrenching the truck in the direction I’m pointing and gunning the engine. As we cross the runway, I get another clear view of The Ark. It’s close enough now that I can see individual pieces of debris fly into its center. I try exhaling my heart back down from my throat as we roll up to the undamaged hangar’s side door.

  After helping Cass down from the cabin, we move to the opening. She’s stronger now, having coughed up most of the foreign bodies in her lungs. The door swings open at my push, revealing a large plane within. A quick look at the cockpit tells me it’s a two-seater. The quick scan also reveals two pilots prepping the fighter for takeoff. A Haitian flag’s shoddily painted on the side of the orange craft.

  Pressing a finger to my lips, I motion to Cass to keep low. I notice a toolbox on the crate next us. Alongside it are a pistol and a map, anchored by a compass. These are militiamen who’ve answered the call to defend their homes. Despi
te all the destruction around them, they’re still fighting on. But if we don’t get on this plane, the Artemis leaves us behind, The Ark goes on killing, and we die here.

  I hate myself for this.

  Before Cass can say anything, I grab the pistol from the crate.

  “Sage, no!” Cass’s voice rouses the attention of the militiamen.

  They twist towards the noise. The pilot on the ground reaches for his weapon, not realizing that I already have it. The one in the cockpit moves to draw his sidearm.

  I fire a warning shot, burying a bullet in the paneling next to his shoulder.

  Flinching, he fumbles with the weapon. The gun drops from his hands, clattering to the ground underneath the plane.

  “Ne tirez pas! Ne tirez pas!”

  I freeze. “Ah shit! What language was that?” I ask Cass.

  Cass steps up behind me. “I . . . I think it’s French.”

  My mind races. Why am I doing this? “Can you speak it?” I ask hurriedly.

  Cass wrings her hands. “Ah . . . I . . . A little.”

  The pilot in the cockpit angrily yells something at the man on the ground.

  “Shut up!” I shout, firing another round through the ceiling.

  They both snap up straight, raising their hands over their heads. Panic starts settling in my chest. This isn’t me.

  I can’t go back.

  “Cass, please tell them to politely remove themselves from the plane and evacuate the area immediately.”

  Step by step, I walk slowly towards my captives. Cass relays my instructions, stopping and starting as she strings together the proper verbs and nouns.

  They seem to understand as the pilot in the cockpit works his way down the ladder with one hand still raised over his head.

  As I reach the base of the plane, the older pilot runs one of his hands through his short cropped Afro while saying something. The stress in his voice sounds as if he’s pleading.

  “Cass, what’d he say?” I ask.