Page 23 of Aviator
I step out into the biting wind, my teeth chattering and my body shuddering with the cold. I scan the sky, but there’s still no sign of anyone. No sound of a search party. Nothing. The storm has at least passed, but the amount of snow it dumped overnight is awe-inspiring. I didn’t even know it could snow this much in North Carolina.
My heart sinks as I trudge towards the wreckage, the snow crunching beneath my feet. It’s hard to breathe in this frigid air, and my lungs protest with each inhalation. As I reach the downed helicopter, I shield my face from the icy wind with my hand and peer inside.
What had once been a helicopter no longer resembles its former self. The seats are torn apart, the instruments are shattered, and the control panel is a twisted mess of wires. I know the emergency radio or whatever it’s called must be somewhere in this wreckage. I search every nook and cranny, and my fingers go numb as I dig through the debris. Finally, I see something glinting out of the corner of my eye.
I pull what looks like a little radio from a mangled compartment and pray it still works. I flick the switch and listen intently, hoping for a signal. Finally, I hear a droning beep, and relief floods through me. It’s working. Help will be on its way.
I feel a sudden surge of panic as I dart back to the shelter. What if Dean is in worse shape than when I left him? What if he succumbs to the cold and his injuries, and I get there too late? The thought of losing the dumb jerk fills me with hollow dread.
The shelter is darker and colder than before, the fire having burned down to embers in the short time I was gone. I scan the darkness frantically before finally catching sight of his bulky frame, still wrapped in the blanket near what’s left of the fire. He’s lying on his side, breathing shallowly, and his lips are blue. He’s shivering, too, his face tight with pain.
I rush over and kneel at his side. “Dean, can you hear me? Help is coming. Everything will be okay. Just hold on.”
His eyes flutter open, but they’re glazed with pain and exhaustion. He tries to speak, but no words come out. He nods weakly instead, letting me know that he heard me.
I lay close to him, wrapping the coats and emergency blanket tighter around us. I try to share my body heat and keep him warm, but he still shivers against me. I need to treat his break. Hell if I know how to do that, though, or even if I should have done that before I let him sleep. I know he’s supposed to stay awake with a concussion, but he’s at least responding to me somewhat. Maybe he’s not as hurt as I think.
To distract myself, I take out the map I found with the medical kit and begin to study it to try and figure out our location. When Dean made the mayday call, I remember him mentioning the north face of Thunderhead Mountain. There are all sorts of state parks and touristy places in these mountains, so there must be some kind of building close. A cabin or a station for the state rangers. We need better shelter because we might very well freeze to death before Search and Rescue ever finds us.
As I analyze the map, I notice a small icon that looks like a ranger’s station. It’s about two miles from what I think is our current location, but we’ll have to move quickly. Time is not on our side, especially with Dean’s injuries. And that’sifI’m reading the map correctly and my guess about our location is accurate.
I turn to Dean, who is still unconscious, and worry creases my forehead as I take in his condition. His head is bleeding, and I see a lump forming near his temple. The bruises are going to be wicked, and his skin is already a dark shade of purple. He doesn’t budge when I give him another sip of water and check his leg.
I try calling his name, but he doesn’t respond. I’m on the verge of panic, but I take a deep breath and calm myself. Panicking won’t help either of us.
I make several more trips back and forth between the shelter and the helicopter, collecting whatever supplies I can scavenge. The cold is still piercing, and the snow seems to swallow my every move, but I keep going. There is no other option. I pause briefly to melt some snow over the fire in a piece of pliable metal I scavenged into a crude bowl shape, but otherwise, I keep myself busy.
As dark begins to fall, I wrap myself up tightly in one of the blankets, one hand on Dean’s chest to ensure he’s still breathing. As I doze off into an uneasy sleep, my mind drifts back to everything we found in the cabin. Kady’s face is at the forefront of my thoughts.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEAN
It feelslike I’ve been through this exact scenario a thousand times, but it’s never been like this before. Pushing the thought from my mind, I move with the other passengers to locate my bag in the storage bin, grateful that I’ll soon be out of the crush of people.
All I want is the privacy of the mountains and to be with my family.
That’s all I’ve been able to think about since everything went down. The only light at the end of this hellacious tunnel.
Disembarking the plane moves at a glacial pace, and my patience at being surrounded by so many people is already paper thin. As I wait, I shove headphones in my ears and crank up one of those camping ASMR videos that soothe my nerves. The sound of the woods and the crackle of campfire keep me from snapping at the closest available victim.
Finally, I get into the terminal, clear security, and find my bags. Normally, they’re waiting for me by baggage claim. I peer through the throng for her customary yellow cardigan but don’t see one. She always wears the yellow one, so she’s easy to spot.
I stay where I am, assuming she’ll be there shortly. Traffic can be a bitch near the airport, so I don’t worry. . . at first.
Then, fifteen minutes go by.
Then thirty.
After an hour, I’m calling her number—no answer.
At an hour and a half, I’m striding through the crowd with no care for anyone else. I muscle through them and ignore the fierce looks and muttered complaints when I’m not kind about it. Something raw and savage grows inside me with each unanswered phone call.
I order an Uber outside the arrivals exit and wait impatiently for the driver to arrive. There is no conversation as they navigate through the traffic, and I don’t give a damn that the cost from the airport to Crystal Mountain will be extraordinary. With each passing moment, my stomach clenches a little tighter.
But when the car pulls up to the cabin, and there’s a sheriff’s cruiser in the driveway, all that tension drops out of my ass, leaving a greasy nausea in its wake.
In a daze, I thank the driver and retrieve my bags with numb hands. The sheriff’s deputy exits the cruiser and meets me with a somber expression.
