Not so for the pax.
When a rapidly moving object, like a car or plane, stops suddenly, those inside who are not securely fastened become what biomechanics call “near-flung objects.” Each object within the larger object continues at the same speed at which it was traveling until coming to its own sudden stop.
In a Cessna, that ain’t good.
Unlike the pilot, the passenger hadn’t been belted. I could see hair and bone shards on the windshield frame where his head had come to its sudden stop.
The skull had suffered massive comminutive fracturing on impact. The fire had done the rest.
I felt plate tectonics in my stomach as I looked from the charred and headless torso to the grisly mess lying around it.
Cicadas droned in the distance, their mechanical whining like an anguished wail on the breathless air.
After a moment of serious self-pity, I replaced my mask, eased into the cockpit, climbed to the back, and began sifting bone fragments from their matrix of debris and brain matter, most of which had ricocheted backward after hitting the windshield frame.
The cornfield and its occupants receded. The cicadas faded. Now and then I heard voices, a radio, a distant siren.
As Larabee worked on the passenger’s body, I rummaged for the remnants of his shattered head.
Teeth. Orbital rim. A chunk of jaw. Every fragment coated with flaky black gunk.
While the pilot had been speckled, the passenger was totally encrusted. I had no idea what the substance could be.
As I filled a container, Hawkins replaced it with an empty one.
At one point I heard workers setting up a portable generator and lights.
The plane reeked of charred flesh and airplane fuel. Soot filled the air, turning the cramped space into a miniature Dust Bowl. My back and knees ached. Again and again I shifted, fruitlessly searching for more comfortable positions.
I willed my body temperature down by calling up cool images in my mind.
A swimming pool. The smell of chlorine. The roughness of the boardwalk on the soles of my feet. The shock of cold on that first plunge.
The beach. Waves on my ankles. Wind on my face. Cool, salty sand against my cheek. A blast of AC on Coppertone skin.
Popsicles.
Ice cubes popping in lemonade.
We finished as the last pink tendrils of day slipped below the horizon.
Hawkins made a final trip to the van. Larabee and I stripped off our jumpsuits and packed the equipment locker. At the blacktop I turned for a closing look.
Dusk had drained all color from the landscape. Summer night was taking over, painting cornstalks, cliff, and trees in shades of gray and black.
At center stage, the doomed plane and its responders, glowing under the portable lights like some macabre performance of Shakespeare in a cornfield.
A Midsummer Night’s Nightmare.
I was so exhausted I slept most of the way home.
“Do you want to swing by the office to pick up your car?” Larabee asked.
“Take me home.”
That was the extent of the conversation.
An hour later Larabee deposited me beside my patio.
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
Of course. I have no life.
I got out and slammed the door.
The kitchen was dark.
Lights in the study?
I tiptoed to the side of the annex and peeked around the corner.
Dark.
Upstairs?
Ditto.
“Good,” I mumbled, feeling stupid. “I hope he’s not here.”
I let myself into the kitchen.
“Hello?”
