But my plane sank even lower into the tree canopy. The steering column started vibrating in my hands as branches smacked the fuselage. Gritting my teeth, I tried in vain to pull up, to glide as long as possible. Landing like this was . . . unthinkable. This couldn’t happen. I had to do something. I had to fix this. Shit, how do I fix this?
A large bang and a snapping sound vibrated through the plane, tossing me forward. The landing skis . . . the treetops had torn them off. Somehow having that safety net gone made everything startlingly real and even more terrifying. My heart hammered in my chest, my palms were slick with sweat, and I was breathing so fast I felt light headed. Oh my God . . . this was really happening. I was going down, I was crashing, and the odds of me living through it were . . . impossible.
“Mom . . . Dad . . . Patricia . . . I’m so sorry.”
Tears poured down my cheeks as my family flashed through my mind. I’d done this so many times . . . I looked forward to this trip every year. I never thought . . . I never imagined. This can’t really be the way I die. I have so much life left . . . please don’t let this be the end . . .
Branches began smacking against my windshield with whipping cracks that reverberated through my bones. The deeper I went into the trees, the more violent the blows became. Metal groaned; then something snapped with a sideways jolt that made my head hit the window in an explosion of pain. My vision faded in and out as realization struck me—the wings . . . one of them, or maybe both of them, had broken off. It wouldn’t be long now until I was torn to pieces like the rest of the plane. I couldn’t stop the screams of terror that left my lips, but the chaos of sound around me was so deafening—like standing in the jet wash of a commercial airplane—that I couldn’t hear them.
Then the nose of the plane touched the earth. I hit the steering column hard, and every cell inside my body seared with pain. I couldn’t inhale. I couldn’t exhale. Gasping for breath that wasn’t coming made stars explode in my vision, erasing the flash of green, white, and brown rocketing up and over the windshield. Glass splintered, metal whined, and objects in the cabin flew in every direction as momentum caused the plane’s body to shift sideways, toppling, turning, and twisting. I smelled gas; I tasted blood; I felt agonizing pain . . . everywhere. And then, mercifully, my entire world went black.
Chapter Two
Sound was the first thing that came back to me. And then surprise. Was I alive? How was I alive? I shouldn’t have survived that. Something was dripping nearby, a steady drop . . . drop . . . drop that was slowly bringing me back to awareness. Awareness brought sharp, burning agony, and I instantly wished for the unconsciousness to return. Every muscle in my body felt ripped in two; every bone felt snapped in pieces. There wasn’t a single inch of me that wasn’t radiating with pain, and I hadn’t even moved yet. I was terrified to move.
But I couldn’t stay in this destroyed airplane forever. I carefully opened my eyes, and whiteness blinded me as my vision spun and pulsed. It made me nauseated, and it was difficult to wait it out without throwing up. My sight finally cleared. I was slumped over the broken steering column, and fractured glass from the windshield was everywhere. Sleet from the storm was splashing all around me, chilling me to the bone. It echoed off the remaining portions of the plane; there wasn’t much of it left in one piece.
A thick branch was sticking through the windshield like a sword. Seeing it sent a strange surge of relief and panic through me—a foot to the right, and the branch would have impaled me. I tried lifting my head, and the world swirled again like I’d put it in a blender. Resisting the urge to lie back down, I tried to sit upright. My chest was on fire. Every inhale was agony, every exhale torture. I wished there was a way to breathe without using my lungs. Tears stung my eyes as I endured the pain and looked around.
The cockpit of my small plane was absolutely decimated. The body of it too. There was a gaping hole in the side of the plane where my door used to be, and what was left of my cargo was spilling out of it. My insides felt similarly torn apart. Scared of what I might find, I gingerly checked my chest and torso for blood. Every inch of me was tender to the touch, and there was a ragged cut over my eye, dripping blood down my face, but I didn’t feel any other open wounds. Of course, my legs were half-buried under the dash. I’d have to move to get them out, and I was really scared to do that.
Mentally preparing myself, I tried scooting out of my seat. A shock wave of pain radiated from my left leg, and a cry of agony escaped me. Inhaling and exhaling stuttered breaths, I tried looking through gaps in the wreckage to examine my leg. I couldn’t see much from my angle at first; then I shifted enough to see the problem, and my stomach clenched with disgust and fear. Sometime during the tumbling and tossing of the fuselage, a branch had punctured a hole through the thin metal. It had also gone into my thigh; my pants and the part of the branch still visible were coated in thick red blood. Jesus. Bile rose up my throat, and my stomach twisted so hard I knew I was going to throw up—no holding it back this time. Leaning to the side, I let it out. Oh my God, how was I going to get out of this metal death trap with a tree branch through my leg? And if I did manage to get out, how the hell was I going to find shelter before it got dark? How could I build a fire? Patch up my thigh? Find my pack holding all my food? Melt snow for water? Keep the hungry animals at bay? How the hell was I going to survive? Did I really live through all of that just to die out here? Was life really that unfair?
I began to sob as the reality of my situation struck me like lightning. Even though it felt like my chest was cracking open, I couldn’t stop crying. It would have been better if I’d died in the wreckage. This . . . this was cruel.
But no . . . I wasn’t dead yet, and I had too much to live for to give up. My protective, loving family—they would never forgive themselves for reluctantly letting me pursue my dream if I died out here. They would forever be weighted with guilt, wishing they had tried harder to stop me. All of my friends back home, including Shawn—even though our marriage had failed, we had been close since the first grade, and he would always be important to me. My three adorable pug pups—Frodo, Pippin, and Samwise. My sister was looking after them while I was gone, but they were depending on me to come home. And my gratifying career, which was just starting to become something I was truly proud of . . .
No, as long as I was still breathing, I wasn’t going to give up. I was alive, and that meant I still had a chance. And a chance, even a slim one, was better than nothing. I just had to be strong and remember that pain was fleeting.
Fortifying my stomach, I looked at my leg again. I had no idea how deep the branch was buried—or if it had nicked an artery. Pulling it out could cause as much damage as leaving it in. But I couldn’t stay here, so I didn’t really have a choice. I timidly touched my leg. Avoiding where the branch had pierced the skin, I felt the other side of my thigh. My pants were in one piece, and I couldn’t feel any protrusions, so I didn’t think the branch had gone all the way through—thank God. If I used enough force, I should be able to yank my body off the half-inch-thick stick. Shit, it was going to hurt so much. Could I do this? Yes, I had to.
Wiping my bloody, tear-stained cheeks, I prepared myself for an inevitable burst of pain. “You can do this, Mal. Count of three, and it will be over. Nothing to it.” Letting out a long, slow breath, I started counting. “One . . . two . . . three.”
Right on the count of three, before I could freeze up and change my mind, I pushed against the wrecked dash, tossing all my body weight to the right, away from the steering column, away from the branch spearing my leg. As momentum carried me all the way outside, through the smashed-open hole that used to be a door, a tidal wave of agony ripped through my body. I’d never felt anything so paralyzing, and I screamed at the top of my lungs before finally, thankfully passing out. The last thing I heard before darkness covered me again was the ominous howl of a wolf.
When I came to, I wasn’t sure where I was. Blissfully delirious, I thought I was b
ack at home in the mountains of Idaho, making snow angels with my sister. It was too cold, though, and my entire body was shaking with the frigidness of the earth below me. Then I remembered the plane, the crash, the mangled heap of metal, the branch piercing my thigh. The tears resurfaced as the pain and desolation consumed me. God, why couldn’t my delusion be real? I’d give anything to be moments away from a hot fire and warm cocoa. Free from pain, free from misery, free from despair.
But I wasn’t home, I wasn’t free, and the longer I remained lying on the ground, freezing and bleeding, the closer to death I crept. And I couldn’t give in to death. Life was a gift, one I cherished, and I was going to fight to keep it. Through sheer strength of will, I managed to sit up on my elbows. My thick insulated pants were torn and stained, ruined, and a pool of dark blood was collecting on the snow. The sight made me nauseated again, but I needed to staunch the flow before I lost too much blood; I already felt dizzy, like I might pass out at any moment, and if I did, I might not wake up again. Firmly placing my palm against the wound, I pressed down. Pain flared under my touch, threatening to consume me with agony.
Just that little bit hurt so much, and it was only a temporary fix. I needed to do something more, make something tighter to truly keep the blood loss at bay. That was just one of the many things I had to do. Exhaustion weakened my spirit as my to-do list overwhelmed me. Everything on the list felt like it was a top priority. Heat was essential. My fingers were already stiff, hard to move. If I didn’t get them warmed up soon, I might lose them. Fear made me reach into my pocket with my free hand. There were two survival items I always kept on me—a Swiss Army knife and a lighter. Feeling them still there lessened my panic. Thank God, I could get warm. I could smell gas, though. I would have to get away from the plane before I started a fire. I would also need wood—dry wood. Shit. Where was I going to find wood dry enough to burn in this?
Worry made me look around. The sleet had turned to snow, and a thin layer was already covering me and the plane—freezing us both. Finding my survival pack was a must—hopefully it was nearby and not hundreds of feet away, where the plane had first started ripping apart. My pack had everything I’d need to stay alive . . . for a few weeks at least. The fear started returning, and I tried not to think that far in the future. I had to keep focused on what I could do now. Now was all that mattered. And if I could find my pack, then I stood a much better chance of surviving the night.
That was when I remembered hearing the wolf. And where there was one, there were always more. I had to get my gun from the side of the plane so I could defend myself if they decided to come closer; the strangeness of the wreckage should hold them off for a while, but the smell of blood would eventually draw them in. Grizzlies too. They could smell blood for miles, and at this time of year, they were desperate for food. Oh God . . . I couldn’t stomach the thought of being eaten by the animals I loved. I prayed my gun was still attached to the plane.
Panic began to knock on my soul, darkening and frightening the frail hope inside me. I tried to push it back, tried to convince myself that I could do everything I needed to do—that all of this was going to be fine—but it was so hard. I wanted to crawl into a ball and sob, cry, curse the world. But none of that would help me live, and I wanted to live more than anything. I loved my life.
So I needed to fix my leg. That was step one.
Breathing made my chest burn, and I knew it wasn’t just the chill in the Arctic air that was hurting me. I’d probably cracked a rib—several of them, by the feel of things. There might be internal bleeding too. My vomit had been clear, and I took that as a good sign, but still, I wouldn’t know until it was too late. As much as that thought sent icy terror through me, I knew it was out of my hands. All I could do was worry about taking care of the outside of me. Finding my cross necklace intact and still around my neck, I placed my chilled fingers upon it and strengthened myself for the task at hand. You can do this, Mal. You have to.
Looking around, I tried to find something nearby that I could use to bind my leg. The wing covers were dangling from the hole in the plane, billowing in the breeze. I could cut the straps off and use them to tightly wrap my thigh—that should keep the blood loss at a minimum. I hoped.
Having a plan in mind made me feel a little better, mentally at least. My body was in an endless cycle of pain. I made myself sit all the way up. It was agony to move, but what concerned me even more was how much I was shaking. Was I cold? Or in shock? Or had I lost too much blood? Cold I could fix. The other two . . . there wasn’t much I could do about either of them, and that fear shook the mild hope-fueled peace I’d found, leaving me torn between terror and confidence. I had to keep going. Stopping wasn’t an option.
After every part of me was clear from the crash, I began the process of shifting over so I could grab the fluttering covers. Every inch was a battle, pain ebbing and flowing in a cycle that made me cry—I just wanted it to end. I didn’t give up, though, and eventually, I won. Grabbing the canvas, I yanked it over to me. Snow was still lightly burying the earth, and each short breath escaping me was a puff of steam. The cold made everything ten times as difficult. I could barely move my fingers. God, I hoped it wasn’t too late for them. I couldn’t remove them myself . . . I just couldn’t. Even thinking about it made my stomach rise and my throat tighten.
Ignoring that fear, I grabbed my knife and started sawing the straps off the cover. It felt sacrilegious to destroy them, but I wouldn’t need them for what they were intended for anymore. Several straps in hand now, I set to work on wrapping them around my thigh, creating a makeshift tourniquet. Just getting the strap underneath my leg was difficult, but cinching it tight was pure torture—like I was sticking my finger in the wound and wiggling it around. My stomach clenched more than once, and my eyesight narrowed to pinpricks. But somehow, I managed to pull through without throwing up or blacking out.
Leg firmly bound now, I tried to stand. Even with most of my weight on my good leg, it was almost impossible to get up. I managed only by using holes in the metal fuselage to pull myself up. Fighting back tears, fighting through the pain, I gingerly tested how much weight my injury could handle. Not much. Just shifting my weight over made me feel like I was going to topple to the ground. I couldn’t possibly do all of this on one leg. Banging the side of the plane in frustration, I felt the edge of my sanity slipping. I couldn’t do this. I just wanted to lie down . . . just for a minute. Rest . . .
But no . . . I couldn’t crack, couldn’t give in. I was still alive, and that was something. That was everything. I’d rest when I was done. When I was safe.
Praying for strength and luck, I looked over to the section of the plane where my rifle had been resting. Miraculously, it was still attached. Relief made a small, weary laugh escape me. Thank God, something was going my way. Dragging my bad leg, I shuffled over to the weapon. It was hard to remove the gun with numb fingers, but I finally managed to slide it free of its metal holster. I slipped the strap across my chest so I could hold it without my hands. Just having a way to defend myself renewed my spirits. I was getting there. I could finish this.
Finding my pack was my next priority. Hoping beyond hope that it would magically be at my feet, I searched the ground. Damn it, nothing. I looked around the crash site, scouring for clues and resisting the urge to scream in frustration. My injured leg was starting to throb, and all I wanted to do was sit down. I needed a fire. I needed to rest. I needed that damn pack!
While I couldn’t find my bag anywhere, I did find a tall, sturdy branch with a Y at the top that I could use as a makeshift crutch until I found something better. Jerking it free from the plane, I tucked it under my shoulder and prayed it was as solid as it looked. A rush of relief surged through me when it held. I could move. It was still agony, with each step sending a searing jolt through my body, but at least it was possible now.
With halting movements, I shuffled to the back of the plane to try and find some sign of my black surviv
al bag. There was a trail of debris and damage from where my little plane had crashed through the woods. Dear God . . . it seemed to go on for miles. How the hell had I survived that? Speckled throughout the debris were bits and pieces of my gear and most of my food supply. The bins holding my things had burst apart during the crash, and everything was scattered now. Despair crashed over me as I stared at the wreckage. There was too much; I was too weak . . . I couldn’t possibly search the entire path of the crash. And if the bag had landed in a tree, been dragged off by an animal, or had broken apart like everything else . . .
That bag had been my plan B. There was no plan C.
Panic took a firm grasp on me. What do I do? How do I survive now? Exhaustion poured into me, sapping my spirit. Lying down in the snow suddenly sounded like the best idea in the world. Why not? Without that pack, I wouldn’t last long.
Some willful part of me was screaming to rebel against the idea growing larger and larger in my head, but I was rigid with cold and worn thin with exhaustion, and every inch of me was radiating with bursts of pain that siphoned my fading strength. I just wanted something to feel better, even if it was superficial, even if, in the end, it wouldn’t help me.
I was doing it in my mind, picking a spot to rest. Maybe under the tail of the plane so I wouldn’t get snowed on too much. And that was when I spotted something out of place to my left. I’d thought it was a rock at first glance, but it was too dark, too black. Black . . . like my bag. Renewed hope suddenly obliterated my momentary grief, and I shifted toward my survival bag. Toward life.
Getting there seemed to take an eternity, but seeing that the bag was resting near some tall intact trees—shelter—filled me with determination. Once I was there, it was the last place I’d have to go for a while. That knowledge gave me a burst of adrenaline. Just a little farther, and I can stop—I can rest.
Under the Northern Lights Page 2