“What?” I say reflexively.
He looks down and then up at me.
“I’m in one piece, but my seat belt is jammed. I can’t get out. Is it just us?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I shout. “I don’t really know.”
“There’s a knife in my bag. Did the plane survive? Did you find any bags?”
“I saw wreckage,” I shout.
I don’t move. I’m just staring at his face. Then I say absurdly, “Are you cold?”
“What?” he snaps, momentarily exasperated. “Yes, I’m very cold! Listen, the knife is in my yellow backpack; do you have access to any of the luggage? Is anyone else here?”
“There are bags everywhere-I think the bay opened when we crashed,” I say.
“Look for rope, too, and a sleeping bag or something to protect me if I have to spend the night here.”
“Okay,” I shout.
I turn to walk, but he calls out again.
“Wait, what’s your name?”
“What?”
“I don’t know your name,” he shouts.
“Jane,” I say. “Jane Solis.”
Chapter 13
I inhale the frozen air and let it fill my lungs. My mind fires up and I turn from the ledge and look back across the frozen land. The wind dies down and I can see the thin strip on which the captain crashed the plane. It is a plateau a couple hundred yards wide and perhaps twice as long. It is dotted with thick evergreen trees and shrouded on all sides by mountain peaks. It was pure dumb random luck, I think. We hit a tiny runway tucked on the side of a mountain. A hundred yards more in any direction and we’re dead.
Whatever footprints I made on my way to the ledge have been swept away by the wind. An impenetrable wall of snow and ice moves sideways through the air. I can see neither tail nor wreckage. I close my eyes and imagine my trek to this ledge and then my way back. I open them and step forward with an odd air of confidence.
This isn’t a want. You need to save Paul. You have no choice, Jane. Just go forward.
I take my first step and then a second. Slowly, I trudge through the deep drifts of snow. Each step requires an enormous exertion of energy. I steel myself against the wind and ice, and I let my legs take over. One foot in front of the other until, after ten minutes, in the near distance, I glimpse a speck of red in a sea of white. Lettering, a number, I do not know what it is yet, but through the squall I lock my eyes onto that one spot. It must be the body of the plane.
With a shot of hope to charge me up, my right leg flies out of the drift and then my left. Step over step, again and again, I move through the deep snow without thinking, just staring at that bit of red.
The red gets brighter and deeper, but it isn’t a number or a letter. I’m about five feet away, a couple of strides perhaps, when I see a red boot sticking straight up out of the snow. There’s a leg attached. And then about two or three feet from the leg, I see the captain’s head, turned on its side, detached from its body, staring at me.
I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out until my guts clench and I dry heave specks of dark green bile onto the snow.
There’s no air in my lungs and my stomach turns again and the sound that comes out of my body is deep and soul-scraping, like a wounded animal torn in half by a trap. I look around and see luggage, clothing, debris, and what appears to be a woman with her arm draped over the snow at the near entrance of the main cabin. Her hand is still adorned with a giant ring.
“Margaret,” I whisper.
It is weird and unexpected, but a lump grows in my throat. This is so fucking random. I’m alive and Margaret’s dead. Why do I deserve to live? I don’t. I don’t.
I imagine Eddie, and Margaret’s sisters and brothers, her mother and father, all of who are hoping right now that she’ll be the lucky one. I can hear Eddie’s voice as clearly as if I were still standing in line behind him: “If anyone survives, it’ll be Margaret. She’s a survivor.” Well, I guess we all are until we’re not.
And then my mother’s face pops into my mind. That sad, broken face she wore for years after my father died. For a moment I try hard to remember what her face was like on that Christmas Eve before he died. We made cookies. I wonder if she remembers? I wonder if across the continent, our brains could be connecting right now. If she believes I’m a survivor.
Alex Morel
Survive
Chapter 14
T he entrance to the shell of the plane is a few yards beyond Margaret’s hand. Against the hard-falling snow, it sits like a gigantic metal sculpture, unveiled only for my eyes. I move slowly and assuredly through the snow until my hands find the cold metal. I work my way around to a jagged hole once occupied by the plane’s tail, entering what was formally the entire middle section of the plane. There’s another gaping void on the other side where the door to the pilot’s cabin used to be.
The plane must have broken into three parts: the tail, with the bathroom and me; the body, which I’m now standing in; and the pilot’s cabin, wherever that may be. I walk the aisle and stop at a man who is still strapped into his seat. He is ice cold, eyes frozen open with the dull glow of death. I look and check the others quickly. The few who remain strapped into their seats are dead. The others are outside, dismembered. No movement, no life.
Then I turn to look at my row and both seats are gone, just ripped out. They were probably thrown because they appear to have been situated right where the end of the plane tore from the middle section. That’s how Paul survived.
A big gust pushes through the shell and I realize how cold I am and how little shelter the cabin offers me since it’s wide open on either end. I look around. Bags are everywhere. Books, toiletries, clothes. The cargo bay has been ripped open, and luggage is strewn across the snow.
Then I see the first piece of good news I’ve had since finding Paul. It’s the green duffle bag the climbers jammed under the seats in front of us. I’d bet my life it is full of hiking stuff.
I try to grab its handle, but my hands are cold and getting a firm grip is difficult. Instead, I try looping my elbow around and pulling back like a mule. It won’t budge and the zipper is wedged tight against the seats. I move myself to the front of the next row and sit on the floor. With my back braced against the seats, I push against the bag with my feet. It nudges forward.
I get up and go back to the other side of the seats. I look at the seat and then pull off the seat cushion, remove the life jacket, and underneath I can see the zipper of the bag. I stand on top of the bag and stamp it down as much as I can. I walk around to the back and I spend a minute blowing on my right hand and fingers until they feel warmer. I grasp the handle at the end of the bag with my right hand and wrap my left around for support. I yank, and it moves, but only an inch. I try again by leveraging my feet against the seats in front of me and push with my legs while pulling with my arms. Nothing.
I laugh for a second. You have to laugh, I tell myself.
I stand up and assess. I have to get inside this damn bag. I kneel and bite down hard on the zipper tag, niggling my teeth against the little hole on the end. Then, like a dog, I pull the zipper as hard as I can with my teeth. For a moment I feel no movement, no give, but then the zipper loosens and gives an inch. I start yanking and yanking against the opening until zip! It moves six inches, then a foot. I grab the two ends with my hands and pull it
