Echoes of Darkness

by Rob Smales

  My eyelids flutter, my tickling lashes registering the snow’s nearness before I see it, before I even feel it on my skin. I roll over, start to moan, then stop. My throat is too dry to make a sound—all the attempt makes is pain, and I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime, thank you very much. I scoop snow with clumsy movements, mashing it into my mouth to melt slowly on my tongue. I reach for more and see red streaks on my fingers. Blood? Did I bite my tongue? Lose a tooth? I wipe at my lips again, numb fingers scraping woodenly across an unfeeling face.

  More red. But it’s not quite right, it doesn’t look like . . . I hold my fingers closer. Squint.

  It’s not blood red. It’s rose red. A single word floats through my mind.

  (Maybelline)

  Horrified, I stick a finger in my mouth, scrubbing it against my teeth and gums. It comes out covered in a familiar rose red.

  “Oh, God,” I try to say, but the words are only a rough whisper. I ate the lipstick. And if I ate that, then I must have eaten all the rest as well. I cover my eyes with a hand, trying to recall the deed, to recover the taste, the feel, to remember anything about eating the last of what I laughingly referred to as food. There’s nothing there, not even the dreamlike possibility of a memory . . . but I have no problem remembering something I wish I could forget.

  My God, I was awful.

  I roll onto my stomach and try to rise, but I’m too clumsy, my balance nonexistent. I crawl instead, dragging myself the short distance into the plane, thankful I hadn’t gotten farther before I fell. Thankful also that the door wasn’t closed behind me. Something about that bothers me, the wide open door (Were you raised in a barn? says a voice in my head, female and familiar, but I can’t quite place it), but I don’t have time to worry about it now. I can only handle one thing at a time, if that, so rather than think about it I simply close the door behind me, shutting up the nagging in my head.

  “I am so sorry,” I say, the words coming hard and slow through my dry and swollen throat. The other two say nothing, patient. “I was wrong. It was me. I had no right. Can you forgive me?”

  Bill pointedly refuses to even turn to meet my eye. That hurts, of course it hurts, but not as much as the blank, dead stare my wife levels my way.

  “Maggie, please.” I pull myself closer to her, a little bit of feeling coming back to my rubbery limbs through use; pins and needles, mostly, but at least it’s something. “I’m not doing so good here, you know? I know I said I’d get you down. I tried, but I can’t. And about the food, I lost my head there. But I know it was me now, see?”

  I rub a quick, painful finger across my teeth and gums and hold out the reddish-pink result for inspection.

  “See? I know, you know”—I wave a hand behind me—“even Bill knows. I was way out of line before, okay? But please, please don’t shut me out. Don’t ignore me, I couldn’t take that. I’ll never make it on my own. Please.”

  Maggie’s expression doesn’t change a whit. It’s like talking to a stone.

  “What do you want? Do you want me to die? Was I right before?” I turn, throwing words at the back of Bill’s head. “Is that it? Bill? Is that what you both want: for me to join you? I . . . I can do that.”

  Bill responds no more than Maggie, but at least I can see Maggie’s face, try to gauge her reactions. I turn back her way, meeting her cold stare.

  “I can do that, hon. I can do that. Is that what you want? Okay. Okay.”

  I keep saying it, like a mantra, as I pull myself over beneath the seat where I woke up the other day. Using the curve of the bulkhead and the purchase the recessed window gives me, I pull myself nearly upright.

  “Okay?”

  My heart is beating hard from exertion, my head pounding in time, and the plane’s gone all swimmy again as I grab the nearer end of my old seat belt. I wrap it about my fist in a death grip and use it to hold myself up as I flail for the other half of the belt, dangling an arm’s length away. It may be swinging, it may not; I really can’t tell right now. All I know is I can’t catch hold of the damn thing as it wavers, seeming to sway in the air before me. I’m still saying “Okay? Okay?” but it’s less a question to Maggie and Bill than it is a tear-streaked plea to the universe to just let this happen, just let the damn belt come into my hand and let me get this done.

  I want to be done.

  Finally, weeping with impatience and fatigue, I lunge for the strap. My feet slip out from under me and I loose a rusty, guttural cry of frustration: if I fall I’ll have to start all over again, and I just don’t know if I can do it.

  Twin jets of agony lance up from my knees as they impact the floor, the body-wide jolt enough to make my world go white. Unconsciousness looms large again, but I manage to fight it off, focusing on my hands, on their grips: left hand wrapped in a nylon strap, the right squeezing tight on another. Then tighter.

  My lunge worked. I’ve got it.

  Clinging to consciousness, hanging two-fisted from the seat belt, I manage to stay kneeling but upright. I struggle to my feet again, bracing my backside against the bulkhead once more. I know neither side of the belt is long enough to loop about, then tie a knot. Neither end will work alone. But together . . . together they just might get the job done.

  Working swiftly, not thinking about it beyond the logistics, I snap the belt together, then grab the buckle as a whole, twist it to the correct angle, and yank it out to its greatest buckled length. Sliding my feet over the floor rather than lifting a foot and maybe losing my balance, I position myself under the seat. Holding on to the belt with my right hand, I take hold of the end sticking out of the buckle with my left: the thing flight attendants tell you to yank on to pull the belt tight across your lap.

  I take a breath, and slip my head through the space between seat and belt, tucking the nylon gently beneath my chin.

  “Okay,” I say, a return of my mantra, as I angle my head slightly, bringing Maggie into view. She hasn’t turned her head in my direction, but I can tell she’s watching me from the corner of her squinty eye, and there’s a grim satisfaction in her profile. With the seat backs in front of me I can’t see Bill at all, but I feel his silent approval radiating from the front of the plane.

  “Okay.”

  My right arm trembles with the strain of holding myself erect; my left simply trembles, though the fingers still wrap tightly about the pull tab of a strap. This will do it, I think. This will put us all on even footing, and they’ll stop giving me the cold shoulder. This will stop me from feeling so alone.

  And so hungry.

  “Okay.” I tilt my head forward to hold the belt beneath my chin.

  Wait! shouts a voice in my head, the rational, French-tip and pilot-name voice, just as my left arm yanks the strap as hard as it can. The seat belt snaps taut beneath my Adam’s apple, pinning the back of my head to the seat above. My legs give out again, and my full weight falls against the restraint across my throat.

  No! comes that voice again, as limbs flail, my arms and legs no longer under my control. You wanted them to talk to you to help you survive, the voice says, crystal clear and as annoying as ever. Doesn’t killing yourself so they’ll stop ignoring you kind of defeat the purpose?

  My lungs suddenly kick into overdrive, pulling and pulling, but it’s like trying to suck a shake through a collapsed straw—all that work for no reward. My feet scrabble against the floor, but the curving shell that was once the ceiling has become a slope of ice, and they can’t find any purchase.

  You’re doing all this to survive! You want to survive!

  My throat feels like an empty beer can crushed in some dumb jock’s fist, but my view of the seatback in front of me is suddenly shockingly clear, the pattern of whorls and grain in the leather coming into amazing focus, even in the dim light, the high-defest of high-def. It’s the last thing I’ll ever see. I don’t feel Bill any more. I don’t see Maggie. My uncontrolled hands strike the wall, the seat, the window, my own face.

  You’re th
e guy in the movie who rations the food. Who makes the fire.

  Shiny spots. Worms of light. Worms of dark. All of them invading my high-definition view, creeping in from the sides to steal the sight from my bulging eyes. My hands striking the seat. Striking my face.

  You’re the guy who wants to live!

  Striking the seat belt release.

  I crumple to the floor, great whoops of air burning in and out through my bruised throat.

  You see? I told you you want to live.

  Fuck you, I think back, as I huddle against the bulkhead, unable to even see Maggie’s expression through the tears flooding my eyes. The sobs rip through my crushed windpipe to thrust spears up into my skull, skewering all the soft spots in my head, and though I try to crawl away—not having a destination in mind, but just needing to go somewhere—my exhausted limbs won’t do more than twitch. Maybe I do want to live, but I don’t know if I can take it.

  I don’t know if I can take it.

  I’m shuffling through the snow, one hand braced against the plane for balance, the other trailing behind, dragging a long, stout branch. I stagger to a stop, confused. Wondering how I got here. I know what I’m doing, but not how . . . how I . . .

  I know I’m trying to get Maggie and Bill—at least Bill—to forgive me for pulling that belt release. Bill . . . Bill’s in terrible shape, stumps and stubs for arms, his face a mess—it’s no wonder he’s a little pissed at me for still being alive. I had the idea that if I could manage to protect Bill, if I could manage to keep those damn wolves out, then he might look kindly on me, you know? I know about that idea . . . but I don’t remember actually having it. Just like I don’t remember coming out here to work on it, though I can see from the tracks in the snow that I’ve already made this trip up the plane. Twice. At least twice. I’m going to have to search out more wood, if I ever want to start a signal fire or something.

  I wonder how long I’ve been working out here. Then I wonder what time it is. Then I wonder what day it is, and how long I’ve been here in the clearing. Three days? Four? I glance up at the sky, looking for the sun, trying to gauge whether it’s on its way up or down. Tilting my head back causes me to nearly tip over, and I lean against the plane to keep my balance. My stomach chimes in as well, rumbling painfully, curling me forward, and I spend a moment just leaning there, trying to remember what it was like when I ate those mints. Those pills. That lipstick.

  The moment stretches.

  My calf begins to cramp from standing there so long, leaning with most of my weight on one leg. My tongue rakes the backs of my teeth, looking for a hint of taste, even the waxy, flowery taste left behind by the lipstick, but there is nothing. Nothing but the fuzzy, rancid slime coating my teeth after . . . how long has it been since we crashed? Since we took off?

  My hand slips on the plane, numbed fingertips burning as they slide across the icy metal. I catch myself through pure reflex, but the jolt to my head gives me a fresh batch of pain to worry about, the accompanying nausea sending thoughts of candy and pills skittering away. I bend cautiously, grip the limb I dropped as I stood there lost in fantasy, then trudge on, sliding myself almost bodily along the Piper’s slippery hull. I have work to do.

  It takes some doing, but I manage to fasten some of those branches in place like crisscrossing bars, weaving the crooks of branches together like table forks with their tines meshed. You can push and pull at those meshed tines all you want, but the only way to free up those forks is to pull the whole thing apart from the sides. With some of the branches braced inside the plane, others outside, the only way those wolves are going to get into the plane again is by pulling this lattice apart from the sides, like those table forks, and they just aren’t smart enough.

  I give the rough lattice a shove, then a pull, easing my weight back against my grip on the crossbars. It’s in there solid. I’m pretty wedged in as well, having shoved myself under the protruding nose of the plane, right in under the upside down engine, to get to the broken windshield.

  I’ve avoided looking in at Bill, though he hangs just feet away, even when I was working part of the lattice in under the tree limb protruding through the glass . . . and Bill. He’s in rough shape, much rougher than me, and—quick motion catches my eye. I peer through the glass at Bill. Did he actually move? Maybe wanting to show his approval for what I’ve done, protecting the plane, protecting him? That must be it! I look at him, right into his shredded-meat face, looking for some sign . . . but there is nothing. He’s not even looking at me, but past me, as if I’m not worth his time.

  Or he’s looking at something behind me.

  I turn, and for an instant it appears the snow is alive, tendrils rippling toward me across the unmarked surface of the clearing: the wolves are back. Running low, legs all but hidden by the snow, they come, gray upon white, swift and silent as windblown storm clouds scudding across a steel-gray sky. They’re halfway across the clearing already, and closing fast.

  I’m moving before I know it, sliding out from beneath the engine and heading for the Piper’s door. I have to cover a fraction of the distance they do, but I’m exhausted, and sick, and I haven’t eaten in days. I know I can’t walk upright, never mind run, so I don’t even try. Throwing myself forward, I scramble through the snow on my hands and knees, a clumsy imitation of the wolves’ fluid gait. Though my skull screams in protest, I know I can’t stop, rolling under the remaining wing rather than going around.

  I’m just gripping the Piper’s door handle with numb, clumsy fingers when I hear the whisper of fur on snow and the light crunch of running paws behind me. I don’t try to look back—I don’t dare—but twist the handle for all I’m worth and yank the door hard. The pull sends me off-balance again, but I’m falling in through the opening door. I manage to shift my grip to the inner handle, thanking God it’s a great big bar rather than some silly little doorknob, and let myself tumble into the plane, trying to get my legs and feet in while my body weight slams the door. From the feel of my head, landing on my back in the plane may well kill me, but at least I won’t wind up—

  Teeth clamp onto my boot, a muscular neck twisting, trying to rip and tear. I’m jerked to a halt, by both the boot and my grip on the door, though one of my hands slips loose, the arm flailing behind me. My scream is propelled by both pain and fear, the swollen, pulsing agony that is my head vying for dominance with the primal terror of being savaged and eaten by the monsters of the forest.

  A guttural yelp echoes my own cry. I look down at my trapped foot and straight into the eyes of the wolf, its head half again as big as my own. Its own lunge through the slippery snow, combined with my own still-considerable weight, has pulled it partially into the plane, the closing door slamming into its side, pinning it in the doorway.

  Rather than just letting me go, however, the beast wrinkles black lips back from white teeth that look enormous from this close, and bears down. I feel the bones in my foot threatening to give way and flatten like a stomped-on soda can, expensive boot or not, and I howl with pain. Toes flex, claws screeching against the metal and molded plastic of the ceiling-cum-floor, and the thing gives a heave, like the family dog playing tug-of-war with his favorite toy, but strong, so strong, and I’m all but yanked out of the plane like an oyster shucked from its shell.

  My flailing arm comes back around, palm slapping hard against the bulkhead. My sliding foot butts up against the lip of the doorframe, the bolted-on white sign with its black lettering spelling out an upside down watch your head. My mind is strangely clear, clearer than it’s felt in days, and I’m terrified but seeing everything, seeing every little thing, and I note the gap between the door and the wolf’s heaving shoulder as it wrestles to pull itself free and take me with it. Planted hand and foot, a death-grip on the door handle, I yank back with all I’ve got, slamming the heavy metal door into the animal’s side again.

  Another yelp, and I gain some ground in the tug-of-war.

  The thing whipsaws its head from si
de to side in retaliation: a terrier shaking a rat. My whole body jerks, and I scream, feeling swollen tissue tear in my throat as my knee explodes with sick pain. The wolf is winning the tug-of-war in a series of quick yanks: my hand is sliding on the bulkhead, my good leg nearly buckling from the pain in my other knee. It’s almost out now, has almost taken me with it. Shapes streak past the gap in the door: the rest of the pack milling about, waiting for this one big son of a bitch to pull me out of my shell. Once I’m out there I’ll be done, torn to pieces in seconds.

  Screaming again in rage and pain I use my only weapon, the door, actually pushing it open a bit in order to get a good swing. I shove that heavy piece of metal away, then pull as hard as I can, throwing my weight back with it in an all-or-nothing yank.

  The door slams like a snapping jaw, catching the wolf’s head between its swinging solidity and the edge of the frame.

  The yelp this time is high and shocked, no hint of a growl left in it. The grip on my boot suddenly lets go, but my hand on the door handle keeps me upright. The wolf’s jaws no longer snap, its round, golden eyes are dim, and it sags for a moment in the gap, held in place by the pressure of the door. I push and pull the door again, a quick, savage movement as fast as I can, though lacking the power of that great blow. The door smashes the wolf’s head once, twice, as I struggle to get both feet under me again. The beast yips and yowls, trying to pull loose as I finally manage to get myself ready to throw my body into the blow. Claws scrabble desperately on metal and plastic as I scream one last time and push and pull with everything I have left.

  The door swings open and closed, actually slamming this time, metal on metal, and I twist the handle to the closed position, locking the wolf and its pack out in the cold. Twisting the handle finally costs me my grip, and I tumble backward, trying not to strike my head again. I have no idea whether I do or not, there is so much pain, from so many places, and I’m just so damn tired.