Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1)

by RJ Crayton

  “In five minutes, we’ll be in Peoria airspace,” Captain Spencer says. “I’m going to show you a map.” He heads back toward the cockpit, and Luke and I tag along behind him. As we get to our original seats, I sit, realizing not standing in the wobbly plane will make me feel better. Luke sits next to me, and takes hold of my hand.

  Captain Spencer reaches into a wall compartment near the entrance to the cockpit and pulls out a computer map tablet. He turns it on and a color-coded map of the area appears. It shows lots of brownish blue area. I don’t remember everything we learned about these types of maps, but I have a feeling what I am looking at isn’t good.

  Luke scowls. “That’s swamp,” he says, leerily.

  “I know,” Captain Spencer says. “Peoria is swampy. Why do you think FoSS gave it up?”

  “Is it safe to parachute into a swamp,” I ask. “What if our chute starts to sink or something and pulls us under?”

  Captain Spencer shakes his head impatiently. “I’m not dropping you in the swamp,” he says curtly. “That’s what we’re flying over now, but I want you to know you’re going to be adjacent to swamp, so there’s still a chance you might see a gator or two.”

  A GATOR OR TWO?! I take in Captain Spencer’s facial features carefully to see if this is a joke. Set jaw, open, honest eyes, firm stance. Is Captain Spencer great at deadpan? He doesn’t seem the joking type, I decide. “You want us to jump into an area full of alligators?”

  He shakes his head. “Near a place inhabited by gators. And you probably won’t even see one. This drop spot is on the flight path to the airport, but not so close they’d actually push for me to land in Peoria.”

  Luke looks a little skeptical himself, but chimes in. “I’m sure they’d be sleeping, Kelsey. No doubt, even if we saw an alligator, it would be asleep and we’d just mosey on by.”

  MOSEY ON BY! I am not sure what to even say to that. Does Luke really believe that? That we can just mosey on by a bunch of hungry alligators? Given my current luck, alligators are probably nocturnal feeders. We are probably being dropped right in the middle of suppertime. I can’t speak. There are no words to express my feelings at this very moment.

  Captain Spencer leans toward me more. “It’s not to worry you, Ms. Reed. It’s just so you know. I’m sure you’re worried, but given what you’ve done, you’ll have a better life dropping into Peoria, than if I have to land you guys there or back in FoSS.”

  He is right. Gators are nothing compared to the doctors and politicians who want me to pay. Though, I wonder if I am being fair to Peanut? Surely it is better for him or her to be alive and well and raised by someone else than to be gator chum.

  As if he can read my mind, Luke looks at me, then my belly. “Honey, this will be fine. You, me and the baby will be fine. We will not be eaten by gators.”

  Captain Spencer clears his throat, getting our attention. “Listen, we’ve detoured here, with this discussion of alligators. You’re not likely to see any. And if you do, I can give you two emergency, single-use defibrillators. You can use them like weapons. The gator won’t like the charge. They’re meant for emergency, so they’ve got one charge. Just pull the red lever, wait ten seconds, then, it will emit an electrical shock when you press the button. That would daze any animal and send it scurrying.”

  A weapon. For some reason that makes me feel better. In FoSS, deadly weapons are generally only for military use. The idea of having one here and now, of being able to defend myself, is very comforting. Like a security blanket for the big bad swamp.

  Both men seem to notice my anxiety level has fallen, so Captain Spencer continues, pointing to the map. With his pointer finger, he touches the screen, sliding the image over. Now it is fresh green, no marshy mess. He pans further over, revealing a solid expanse. “This is farmland. There are some houses around, but they’re pretty spread out. You should be OK in this area to make a clean drop. And it looks like there’s a hospital and some other businesses within a mile of the drop zone. The airport is about 80 miles from here, which is where they’re expecting us to arrive. Simply drop here, and walk to the hospital.”

  Captain Spencer hands the map tablet to Luke. “You can use this once you’re on the ground,” he says looking him directly in the eye. Then, catching my eye, he adds, “It’ll be about 10 more minutes until we’re at the drop zone.”

  He shakes my hand, then Luke’s. Finally, he turns around and disappears behind the fabric concealing the cockpit.

  Chapter 41: This is Our Stop

  Luke spends the final 10 minutes of our flight getting me ready. He straps the parachute around me, checking things are properly tightened and buckled. He puts on my helmet, straps it snugly, which is easy to do because I am bald, and checks the strap. Then he checks me again. When he finishes, he equips himself with a chute and helmet, then comes back to me. He begins pulling on straps and levers on my chute to make sure it is properly fitted.

  When he pulls on a strap around my waist for a fourth time, I swat his hand lightly. “I don’t want it to deploy in here,” I say. So, he nods, and we both sit on the seats that line the plane’s fuselage. Side by side, but not speaking. I suppose we each need a moment to mentally prepare ourselves.

  When I do look over at him, he is leaning forward, his hands clasped together with his forehead resting on them. I think for a moment he is simply in thought, but I can see his lips moving ever so slightly, and it dawns on me that he is praying. It is a fitting idea, and I know instantly it is one I should imitate.

  I bow my head, close my eyes and take a cleansing breath. Dear Lord, first let me say, I appreciate all the wonderful things you’ve given me in this life. I’ve had a wonderful father, great friends like Susan, found Luke, got Peanut now. So, thank you for all that. And you’ve done plenty for me, that’s for sure. But, now, if I could just ask for a safe landing with these parachutes, that would be the icing on the cake. If not, that’s fine, too. But, I’d appreciate a safe landing. Thank you for listening. Amen.

  I open my eyes and lift my head. Luke is staring at me.

  “Praying?”

  “Yeah, I stole your idea.” I smile and reach for his hand. “I feel better. It was a good thing to do.”

  He smiles. Then, we hold hands and listen to the steady drone of the plane’s engines. The warmth of Luke’s hand, the slow realization that this is it: sink or swim — we’ll either be safe or dead by morning — brings me strange comfort. The unknown is always difficult, so knowing there’ll be an answer to whether this will work out or not in less than an hour makes it easier to deal with. Sometimes choice is refreshing — the idea that you can pick and choose your own destiny. But, sometimes a lack of choice is refreshing, too. There aren’t too many options. My choice is to jump off this plane or go back to FoSS. That isn’t much of a choice. I am going to jump off this plane. And I am starting to see myself do it. Close my eyes, take the leap into the night, land right next to an alligator, and make my way to freedom, moseying on by, just like Luke said.

  I take a couple of empty swallows to avoid my eardrums exploding — a clear indication the cabin pressure is changing as the plane descends. I wonder if this is as difficult for Captain Spencer as it is for us. No, he doesn’t have to jump, but he does have to sell a lie. He has to tell authorities something that isn’t true, and be completely convincing. Most accomplices are not prosecuted, but I worry what will happen because this has been such a public case. It can’t be easy for him to take such a risk, yet he is.

  I open my eyes in time to see Captain Spencer emerge from the cockpit. “We’re at 12,000 feet,” he says. “This is your stop.”

  My legs feel like wet spaghetti noodles. Yet, I pull myself into a standing position, imagining myself going through the reverse of the cooking process — from soft and flexible to rigid and sturdy. Luke stands, too, though I doubt he feels, even for a moment, the wet noodle mindset I am experiencing.

  “Thank you for your help, Captain Spencer,” I say, ta
king a step closer, then hugging him. “You’re saving my life, Luke’s life and this baby’s life. I’ll be eternally grateful.”

  He gives me a gentle squeeze in response, then lets go. “You saved my son, and I’m glad I can help you now.”

  Luke leans in, shakes Spencer’s hand, and offers his own thanks. Then, Captain Spencer motions to the door opposite us. It has a white metal lever that runs flush against it, with a red arrow indicating you turn the lever clockwise to open the door.

  “It’s on autopilot, but I don’t want to leave it like this too long with the changing cabin pressure when I open the door. You should each grab hold of a bar there, as it’s going to get windy in here,” he says, indicating a metal rail alongside the door. Luke and I each grab onto it, then the pilot continues. “I’ll want you two to jump quickly, then I’ll shut her up.”

  We both nod. There isn’t much to say to that. At least not for me. Everything that happens now is simply something that has to happen. It is the next logical step. And when you’re out of other choices, it’s easy to follow the next logical step.

  Luke looks to see if I am ready. I am not, of course. But it doesn’t matter. I take a deep breath then give him a “go” look. Spencer opens the plane door, and the wind is immediate. There’s a tugging like an ocean current and I feel like I might be sucked right off the plane. And perhaps I would have been had Capt. Spencer not told me to hold on. I am standing there feeling the pull of the wind — no the pull of gravity, the pull that will suck me down to earth. The pull that will crash me onto a piece of hard, flat earth, where I will go splat unless this chute works.

  I let go of the bar, take two steps forward, and my third sends me off the side of the plane. I’m not sure what I expected to feel when I left the solidity of the plane. But, what I do feel isn’t it. I feel — for lack of a better word — freedom.

  There are a million sensations I could describe, and they would all be accurate. But none would convey the feeling, the true sense that I feel, better than freedom. There’s wind sweeping across my head, running through my fingers and billowing around me. I feel it all at the same time like I have everything in my control and nothing. The air is gentle and pleasant. The air is cool as my body slices through it.

  I close my eyes and feel the wind whip around me, imagine what it would be like to kick my shoes off and have this wind slide through my toes and across my feet. While I feared it, I shouldn’t have. The sensation is exhilarating in every way possible. And Peanut! I wonder what Peanut thinks of this. “Your first roller coaster ride will pale in comparison to this,” I tell our baby as I fall through the sky. “I wonder what your father thinks of this?”

  I tilt my head back, looking straight up to see if I can find Luke. I expect him to be descending slightly above me somewhere. He was to jump a few seconds after me, and we will land within feet of each other, or that is the plan. The sky is black, but the moon is out, and there is enough light to see a silhouette of him, up there. Just then, though, just as I think I’ve spotted the outline of his form, there is a sudden jerk, a stilted hip-hop as my parachute deploys. Now, above me is a large green billowing mass. It reminds me of a quilt. A beautiful safety blanket that will glide me to my new life.

  I am no longer speeding downward in a surprisingly pleasant free fall. I am now floating downward, softly, gently, the parachute rippling in the night wind.

  I laugh. I can’t help it. I’ve been worrying, panicking that I couldn’t do this. That I couldn’t jump out of a plane, deploy a parachute and land safely. Yet, it is all going so well, so easily, so effortlessly. It is as if the heavens have finally smiled upon me. As if things are finally going to be all right.

  That’s when I hear it: a whoosh. It has come from nearby. I have been so focused on my own green chute as the air pushes it into a perfect curve above me, I haven’t been looking around. But the noise forces me to refocus. I look in the direction the sound came from in time to see a red helmet just like the one I am wearing sliding farther and farther beneath me. It is Luke, and he must have passed me very quickly.

  Why? Why is he going so fast? It doesn’t make any sense. His chute should have deployed. Shit.

  Shit! He is going to crash. His chute isn’t deploying. I watch the dot that is him accelerate faster and faster toward the ground, waiting for the chute to open. A backup, something, anything. I hold my breath waiting for a puff of colored fabric to shoot above him and slow his descent.

  My God! He is going to die! Nothing is happening. We will have done all this, suffered all this, come so far, given up everything, in hopes of living a life together, only to have him die now. No. No, no, no no. “Luke,” I call out frantic.

  It doesn’t help, it doesn’t stop his descent. It seems only to speed it up, to make things a blur, harder to see. It is so dark already. And the further away from me he gets, the harder he is to see.

  Part of my brain says I should close my eyes now. That I don’t want to see Luke die. That I don’t want to see his body explode when it hits the ground below. Force is mass times acceleration. His speed is only getting faster. There will be a sound, a horrible, crashing sound when his body hits. I wonder if he will speak, too, or if his jaw will shatter or his lungs pulverize before he can produce sound.

  I should close my eyes, but part of me is still hoping for a miracle. That damned emergency chute will open, and he will be saved. I watch, my heart screaming for a miracle my brain says won’t come.

  Then, it does. A pink cloud mushrooms above him. It slows his descent, not as slow as mine, but some, and then, a few seconds later, bang, he stops. He must have crashed. But, was the slowing enough? Or is Luke dead? How fast was he going when he crashed?

  I won’t know until I land.

  Chapter 42: The Ground

  The ground is harder than I expected. It isn’t a terribly harsh landing, I don’t think. More like the landing you’d get if you jumped off a low retaining wall. Still, it is harsher than I thought it would be, as I’d been floating so gently down to the ground.

  I immediately begin detangling myself from the chute’s harness, and head toward Luke. He’s drifted about 15 yards away, or perhaps I’ve drifted away from him in my fall. I am not sure. I just know he isn’t close to me. I can’t tell how badly he is hurt. I can see his chute on the ground, and he is in a heap next to it.

  The harnesses are harder to unlatch and remove in my hurry to get to Luke. While I could try to get to him without getting loose from the chute, I worry if I don’t free myself, a strong gust of wind will pull it — and me — further away.

  Once unstrapped, I sprint toward Luke with a singular focus. The ground is soft and marshy, much softer than it felt when I landed. Almost as if I could sink right in. So, I make an effort to lift my knees, practically to my chest, as I run, so I won’t get bogged down or stumble.

  When I reach Luke, he is on the ground, with the pink chute tethered to him and blowing around at his side. Panting from my sprint over, I stop in front of Luke, then manage to hold my breath, silencing my body for just a few seconds, long enough to look and listen. To see that his chest is moving up and down, and hear the slight whoosh he makes as he inhales and exhales.

  Luke is alive. With great relief, I open my mouth and breathe again, gulping in mouthfuls of air, as I drop to my knees on the ground next to him. “Luke,” I say gently, then reach for his hand, pulling it into my own. “Luke,” I say, louder and less gently. “Luke, can you hear me?”

  No response. He doesn’t seem to hear me. He isn’t stirring at all. I pat his hand and call his name again.

  Nothing.

  He is half on his side, as if he had been trying to turn when he landed. I gently roll him onto his back and lean in over his face. I can feel the warmth of his breath. He is breathing. He is alive. This is good. What’s bad is that he isn’t speaking. “Luke,” I say again, this time trying to sound gentle, enticing, inviting enough for him to answer me.

  But no
thing.

  “Luke,” I say, trying to mask the panic erupting inside me. Other than being unconscious, he appears fine. No cuts and scrapes or bruises. None that I can see, at least. There are no tears in his clothes or open wounds. Nothing that indicates there is a serious problem.

  I let go of his hand, unstrap his helmet, gently remove it, and set his head in the grass. I turn the helmet in my hands, examining it. My hands freeze when I see it. A thin line jutting across the back. A cracked helmet is bad. My entire body quivers with fear, and I feel like all the air has been sucked out of me. I take a couple of gulps of air, then try to force the panic from my brain. Even though a cracked helmet is an indication of tremendous force on the helmet, it also means the head has not suffered the full force of the blow. So maybe Luke is alright. I just need to remain calm.

  My trembling hands toss the helmet aside, then I steady myself enough to run my fingers through his hair, feeling out injuries. His hair is a little damp — perhaps sweat, perhaps from the dewiness of the grass. But, there are no obvious lumps or cracks that I can feel along his skull. That is good. Though, one can get a concussion without damaging the skull to the point that it is manually felt, or seen with the eyes. The Life Saving 202 instructor drilled that into our heads. I need to get Luke checked out at a hospital. Unconsciousness is bad. I take a deep breath and tell myself again, “don’t panic.” I look at and feel both his ears, searching for signs that any fluid might be seeping from them. Clear liquid is very bad. It is a sign that the fluid around the brain is leaking. I can’t see or feel any fluid. Another good sign.

  I gently touch his face, running my fingers along his forehead, then cheeks, and finally chin. Nothing feels out of place. This has to be good. I slide my fingers under his head, so I’m cradling his skull.