Chapter Six

  Day Five

  Location – Temporary shelter on the shore of the unnamed lake

  The crack of bone.

  An explosion.

  Fire.

  Despair.

  – The SNAP of a parachute.

  Ashes wakes slowly.

  Her body feels heavy, sore from the miles she pushed through yesterday. It wasn’t the longest hike she’s ever done, but it was brutal in a different way—no food to fuel her, no trail to follow. Every step had been forced, carved through brush and slope, muscle and willpower.

  She feels it in her legs now—tight, aching—but there's more ahead today.

  After taking care of her morning business, she moves stiffly to check the snares she reset before dusk.

  One of them has caught something.

  A squirrel.

  It’s small, but cleanly trapped—an easy kill, and a decent boost to her energy. She unties it and loops it onto her belt with a grunt. Not much, not nearly enough, but it’s something.

  She checks the rest. Nothing.

  Back at camp, she makes quick work of cleaning the squirrel. The motions come easily now, her hands practiced, efficient. She sets the pelt aside with the rabbit skins, They’ll be useful later, when the cold creeps in.

  She rebuilds her fire with the care of habit, coaxing flames from the coals with a breath and a few pieces of split wood. The meat cooks fast on a flat stone—crisped on the outside, juicy inside.

  As she eats, her mind drifts.

  She remembers her first hunting trip with Papa.

  “Okay, Ash—you see that ptarmigan over there?”

  His voice had been soft, nearly a whisper. Calm, but proud.

  “Line up the sights and squeeze slow, just like we practiced.”

  Seven-year-old Ashes had gripped the little .22 rifle tight, elbows wobbling, trying to stay still. She’d taken the shot—and hit.

  The bird dropped instantly.

  Papa had ruffled her fiery red hair, smiling wide.

  “Good shot, Ash.”

  She smiles now, warmed not just by the fire, but by the memory.

  After the surprisingly tasty—but meager—breakfast, Ashes packs her bag. She takes down the shelter piece by piece, folding the chute tarp carefully, every knot and loop undone with practiced fingers.

  She checks the compass before slipping it back into her pack. The needle wavers slightly, then settles on north.

  Her stomach twists—not from hunger this time, but from the memory it drags up.

  The plane that didn’t see her.

  Didn’t even come close.

  She grimaces and tightens the pack straps. No time to dwell. She sets off.

  North.

  It’s going to be a long, uncertain day. She doesn't know exactly where the wreck is—only that it lies somewhere beyond the lake, nestled in the dense wilderness ahead. Five days in, there’s no hope of spotting smoke. Whatever once burned is cold now.

  And she’s not climbing another tree just to guess.

  Her boots press steadily through the underbrush, each step breaking trail through damp ferns and tangled roots. She keeps a slow, deliberate pace—conserving energy, making sure she lasts the whole day.

  Her eyes scan constantly.

  She watches for signs of animals, for paths, for anything edible. Her hand brushes leaves as she moves, checking for familiar textures, glancing at bark and blooms.

  Eventually, she spots something—low, bushy, and dotted with tiny blue fruit.

  Blueberries.

  She drops to her knees beside the patch and begins to eat, savoring the burst of tart juice on her tongue. It’s more than a treat—it’s fuel. She fills her stomach slowly, then gathers a few extra handfuls and tucks them into a rabbit hide in her pack for later.

  Her fingers are stained purple by the time she moves on, but her step is a little lighter.

  Not full.

  But no longer empty.

  She had just crested a small hill when something caught her eye—a sudden flash of sunlight glinting off something shiny between the trees.

  Her breath hitched.

  She hurried forward, adrenaline pushing her legs faster.

  Already?

  She hadn’t expected to find it so soon—not even three hours from the lake.

  She ducks around a tree and freezes.

  The forest here is disturbed. Broken limbs, deep gouges in the moss, a torn path through the canopy overhead.

  Something massive came through here.

  Ashes follows the trail, heart pounding.

  A hundred meters later—she sees it.

  The end of a massive, silver aircraft wing.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Embedded into the earth at an angle.

  Standing nearly upright like some kind of divine javelin.

  God’s lawn dart.

  She stops. Just stares.

  A glassy look settles over her face.

  Everything in freefall. The plane spinning.

  That poor girl’s neck snapping.

  FIRE. WIND—

  Ashes slaps herself.

  The sting clears her head, but tears are already falling.

  She wipes her face with the back of her hand.

  “Come on, girl,” she whispers, voice shaking. “It’s just a wing…”

  A pause.

  “…The wing that sheared off.”

  She pulls up her big-girl pants and flips open her multitool, jaw clenched. She doesn’t know what she can or can’t salvage from the thing—but standing around won’t help.

  Circling the embedded wing, she walks along the edge of the tip where it’s punched deep into the ground. The once-sleek metal is buckled and warped, crumpled near the point of impact. Panels are twisted like tin foil, but some look intact enough to peel away.

  She finds a solid stick—roughly the size of her forearm—and jams it into the edge of a cracked seam between two panels. Leaning into it, she uses her weight to pry it wider. The stick groans, then—pop-pop-pop—a line of rivets bursts free with a sharp metallic snap.

  She instinctively flinches to the side.

  The panel drops with a dull metallic thunk, bouncing once on the mossy ground.

  Ashes crouches and picks it up. It’s about a foot wide and two feet long—a thick rectangle of aluminum, bent from both the crash and her rough treatment. One side gleams faintly, even under the dirt and grime—a dull silver polish like a tarnished mirror. The other side is matte, riddled with rivet holes and stained with oil.

  She nods, sets it aside carefully, and leans in close to the new opening.

  A gaping, black hole stares back at her.

  The air inside smells like fuel, cold metal, and something faintly chemical.

  Very carefully, she reaches inside—moving slow, keeping her arm to one side of the hole. The last thing she needs is to catch her wrist on a jagged edge and bleed out in the middle of nowhere.

  Nothing.

  Not that she expected much. She vaguely recalls that airplane wings often serve as fuel tanks—there wouldn’t be much inside except baffles and maybe a few lines or sensors.

  She briefly considers setting up camp here, maybe salvaging more metal or hardware in the morning. But the thought fades fast. She wants to find the main wreck. That’s where the real supplies would be—if anything's left.

  She lashes the aluminum panel to the side of her pack. It's lighter than it looks, though awkward, the corners bouncing against her hip as she starts off again.

  Hours pass.

  Her legs ache, feet screaming with every uneven step. The undergrowth tugs at her pants, ferns slapping against her arms as she pushes forward. Her body protests with every mile, but she presses on—gritting her teeth, letting the rhythm of walking pull her forward.

  Now and then, she stumbles across small patches of berries—blueberries and cloudberries mostly. She eats as she goes, fingers still stained purple from earlier.

  A break in the trees reveals the sun—low enough now that the shadows are starting to stretch.

  Time to start looking for a place to sleep.

  She slows her pace, scanning for a stream, a spring, or even a patch of soft ground with a little natural cover. Thirty minutes pass.

  Then she smells it.

  Burnt plastic. Hot metal.

  She freezes.

  Every muscle in her body goes still.

  The scent hangs in the air, faint but unmistakable.

  The wreck.

  It’s close.

  By the time she finds it, the sun is sinking fast, the forest dimming into a murky twilight.

  Ashes stands still, staring at the wreckage with a numb expression.

  The aircraft rests at the end of a long, shallow trench carved into the earth—like a scar torn open by speed and desperation. The pilot must’ve somehow managed to bring the crippled bird down on its belly, even with half a wing gone.

  The left wing lies twisted and mangled about a hundred feet behind the fuselage, torn clean off during the landing. The ground around it is scorched and blackened, branches charred—

  That’s what that fireball was, she realizes, throat tight.

  Half the right wing is missing entirely, ripped away at the engine.

  It’s miles that way, she thinks dully, picturing the wing tip stuck in the ground she found that morning.

  The main body of the plane sits low in the dirt, crushed and sagging, the rear twisted slightly off-axis. Smoke no longer rises, but the scent of burned plastic, oil, and metal still lingers like a memory.

  She doesn't move.

  Just watches the wreck fade slowly into shadow as the light drains from the sky.

  She doesn't move.

  Just watches the wreck fade slowly into shadow as the light drains from the sky.

  The smell of burnt plastic and scorched metal hangs in the air like a ghost.

  Her knees go soft.

  The scent yanks her backward, deeper than memory—into terror.

  FLASHBACK

  The right engine explodes.

  The boom shakes the entire plane, followed by a screech of tortured metal and the sudden roar of air as the fuselage shudders. Alarms blare. Lights flash. Smoke pours into the cabin. One pilot is shouting into the radio—the other isn't moving.

  “Mayday, mayday, mayday—this is Cargo Charlie November Two Three Four—right engine explosion—engine fire not out—single-engine and losing altitude—five souls on board—dangerous goods in cargo—”

  The voice repeats, rising in pitch, starting to fray.

  Ashes clutches the armrest.

  Then it happens.

  A deafening tear—metal shearing—and the entire right wing vanishes from her view.

  The plane tips.

  Not a slow descent—a roll. A violent, spiraling tumble.

  People scream. A neck snaps.

  The world goes sideways.

  Bodies slam into the ceiling.

  Ashes reaches—fingers scrape a strap—

  The emergency door bursts open—

  She’s sucked into the sky.

  NOW

  She slaps herself—hard.

  The sharp crack echoes through the trees, and her cheek flares with pain. Tears are already streaming down her face, her breath ragged and uneven, chest tight with panic.

  “It’s over,” she whispers. “It’s over… it’s over…”

  She says it again and again like a mantra, a life raft in the dark.

  Somewhere in the blur, her knees give out. She hits the ground hard, but doesn’t feel it. Time becomes slippery, strange.

  When did I get down here?

  She doesn’t know.

  But eventually—whether it’s the cold seeping in or the last embers of survival instinct sparking—she forces herself to her feet.

  Shaking, she brushes dirt from her pants and pulls her multitool from her belt. There’s no light left to search the wreck, and no good would come from stumbling through twisted metal in the dark.

  She moves away from the trench, just far enough to be out of the shadow of the broken fuselage, and starts rigging a rough shelter. It’s messy. Fast. Not meant to last.

  But it’ll get her through the night.

  She keeps her back to the wreck the whole time.