Bird strike. Screams… of terrified men and the dying plane. Roaring wind filled with broken glass and the propellered puree of Canadian geese. The sparse forest, carpeted in white, embraces us at 140 miles per hour. Darkness.
I might be dreaming, but it’s cold. Frigid air burns my lungs. Screaming erupts in the dark, directionless, terrified. A deep growl. A snarl. The scream is cut short. I wish I was dreaming.
Arctic Corp., had flown us home from the tungsten mine dozens of times without incident. Our ten seat Cessna Caravan is cramped, but dependable. The pilot never saw the birds. Now, we’re trapped in its aluminum entrails.
My watch glows 5:10 am. We left Port Radium under a full moon. We should’ve made Yellowknife in four hours. They’ll have been looking for us for a couple of hours. All we need is a little luck.
It’s quieter than I’d have thought after a plane crash. I don’t think that’s a good sign. But, waking up in a wrecked plane, north of the fucking Arctic Circle, in the dark, with a bunch of dead guys isn’t a very good sign either. I giggle, a little hysterically. The growling makes me focus.
I turn my head slowly towards the sound and realize it’s been so dark because I’ve been staring into the black, upholstered seat back I’m wedged up against. Turning my head to the right shows me the hole ripped in the fuselage where the wing used to attach to the roof of the plane. There’s enough moonlight to show me Carl Lindquist. I work with Carl. I like him.
“Carl. Hey Carl, wake up.”
He stirs. I notice his badly broken leg just as he does. His agonized screams echo around the small cabin and take wing into the frigid darkness.
“Carl! Jesus! Shut up. I heard something …”
A huge, black, wolf lunges through the opening and stops inches from Carl’s face. It sniffs loudly and casually grabs Carl’s head in its massive jaws. Carl screams down it’s throat. He goes limp as the monster crushes his skull. The cabin is filled with my screams now.
The wolf yanks at Carl’s body. It bites his shoulder and wrestles Carl and his chair out into the darkness. An explosion of snarling and snapping jaws. Others join the feast.
All I need is a match. A fire will change the equation. I unfasten my seat-belt, slide out of my chair and move stiffly towards the front of the cabin. What I really need is a gun. What I find is the best of both. An orange box has a flare gun and three rounds. I’m holding the pistol and a flare when growling turns me around.
A grey wolf, it’s face bloody to the ears, fills the aisle. It lowers its head, takes a step. I load the pistol and fire.
“Burn you motherfucker!”
It races into the darkness, howling.
Sunrise. I hear a plane faintly. Wolves are at the door.
- : Drama
- : Violence, language