Just as Ashes looks out the window of the small twin-engine cargo plane, the right engine explodes.

  Over the roar of the wind and the shuddering fuselage, a voice crackles over the intercom:

  "Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Cargo Charlie November Two Three Four. We have experienced a right engine explosion—engine fire is not out. We are single-engine and losing altitude. Position approximately 80 miles northwest of Fort Nelson, over dense forest. Five souls on board, dangerous goods in cargo. Request immediate vectors for nearest suitable airstrip or emergency response. Mayday, Charlie November Two Three Four."

  The message repeats again and again—now from the lone pilot. The other has taken shrapnel to the head and slumps lifelessly over the yoke. The cabin becomes a storm of smoke and noise, and then chaos erupts anew as the damaged wing shears off, sending the plane into a violent, unexpected roll.

  Ashes and the four other passengers, unbuckled and unprepared after hours of steady cruising, are tossed around the cabin like rag dolls. One is killed instantly, their neck snapping against the ceiling. Ashes, in better shape and with a background in high school gymnastics, manages to orient herself just enough to spot a row of parachute packs near the emergency door.

  She lunges for one—fingers catching the strap—just as something, a body or a piece of flying debris, slams into the emergency handle. The door bursts open with a shriek, the sudden pressure difference yanking her out into the sky, the parachute still clenched in her hand.

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  She tumbles head over heels through the air. The world spins—blue sky, green forest, and a thick black smoke trail twisting behind the dying plane. After what feels like forever—but is only seconds—she manages to strap the chute on and stabilize her fall. She pulls the cord.

  Nothing. A tangled mess of fabric flaps uselessly above her.

  Oh god, oh god, oh god, she repeats silently, panic spiking.

  She pulls the sever cord and cuts the useless main chute free, immediately yanking the handle for the backup. The harness jerks violently against her body—but the sudden, glorious deceleration makes her gasp in relief.

  In the distance, she watches the plane as it briefly pulls out of the spin, struggling for altitude. It doesn’t make it. It disappears behind the treeline—and a moment later, a massive fireball erupts. The sound doesn’t reach her for several long, surreal seconds.

  A minute later, she’s racing toward the treetops. There’s no clear path, no good landing zone, and she’s dropping faster than she’d like on the backup chute. She braces as best she can.

  Branches tear at her as she crashes through the canopy, until finally, she slams into the forest floor in a heap. She lies still for a moment, stunned.

  Then she takes stock. Scrapes. Bruises. But nothing broken. She’s alive—miraculously.

  No supplies. No map. No one else in sight.

  Just Ashes, a crumpled parachute, and an endless forest.

  This is Day Zero.