Earthbound

12

The plane went into a sickening bank, dropping at a steep angle, and then bobbed up with a lurch and glided on the level for a while. Not really level; I could see individual trees growing larger by the minute. The air shriek grew louder and deeper in pitch. I couldn’t see what Paul might be aiming for. It was all forest and rolling hills underneath me.

We later learned that Paul was aiming for the town of Holstock, which was the only urban area visible when Spy told us they were pulling the plug. It was a couple of miles too far away, though.

There was still no road visible when I saw the plane’s shadow rushing up to meet us, and obediently assumed the proper position, bent over with hands and eyes and anus clenched tight. He was aiming for a short bit of country road that ran straight for a fraction of a mile.

We hit the gravel road hard, with an explosion as both tires blew. Looking at the path later, you could see that we skidded spraying gravel for less than a hundred yards, and were still going pretty fast when the left wingtip hit a tree. We spun half around and the other wing dug into the ground, and the plane cartwheeled twice and crashed into a pine forest.

All I remember is my face hitting the viewscreen, which didn’t break. I think I was only unconscious for a minute or so. Woke up aching all over, blood trickling off my chin from a cut over the cheekbone. My mouth was full of blood; upper and lower incisors had ripped into my lips. My left eye was swollen shut, and blood trickled down from my left knee. I smelled pine. The plane ticked and squeaked.

Shoulders felt bad, but my hands worked. I opened the seat-belt clasp and tried to stand. The plane was canted over at about a thirty-degree angle. Behind me, I could see that a thick branch or small tree had punched through a window. That was Alba’s seat, and she was obviously dead. So was the man across from her, one of the Funny Farm volunteers, his head at a drastic angle, chin torn off.

I picked my way forward, bracing myself to find Paul dead. There was very little light up there, the windshield and side windows buried in green.

Paul was hanging from his straps, his face a mask of blood. But when I touched him he groaned.

“Paul? Paul, can you hear me?”

One eye blinked open, startling white against the red. He rubbed both hands over his face and stared at the blood. “What the fuck… Do we have casualties?”

“I don’t know—yes. Two, at least.”

“Help me here.” He was trying to undo the clasps on his harness, fingers slippery with blood. When they clicked open, he rolled half onto me.

He felt his head gingerly. “Where the fuck is my flight helmet?”

It was down by his feet. I handed it to him, and he twisted the microphone around. “Mayday. Mayday.” Then he shook his head, hard, and threw it away.

I helped him to his feet. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, “not enough road.” We looked back down the aisle.

In the back, Namir was crunched over Dustin, giving him mouth-to-mouth. Roz lay unconscious or dead across the aisle. Card had a cut on the top of his head; Elza was dabbing at it with a tissue, her other arm hanging limp at her side.

“Where’s Rico?” Paul said.

“Under the seat up here,” Elza said. “He slid.”

“Tobogganed,” Paul muttered. I followed him up there and saw the body. He either hadn’t fastened in properly or the belt failed. His body had slid under the seat in front of him, but his chin caught on the bottom of the chair, and his head stayed behind.

He didn’t look real, and neither did the other man, Stack, his jaw taken away. His eyes were open but there was no life in them.

Paul was kneeling over Roz, his ear to her chest. “Heart’s beating. Find some water?” He crawled up to Namir and Dustin. I found a water bottle and broke the seal.

Tried to pour some into Roz’s mouth, but it just dribbled out. When I splashed some on her face, though, she reacted, wincing a little.

“Are you okay?” Brilliant question.

She opened one eye. “Yeah, but you look like shit.” She coughed and propped herself up on her elbow. “Think I broke a rib.” She coughed into her hand and looked at it. “Not too serious. How is Rico?”

“Dead. He’s dead.”

She shook her head. “God, Rico. Anybody else?”

“Stack, Alba, maybe Dustin.”

“Do we want to get out of this damn thing before it explodes?”

“Not a problem,” Paul said, not looking back. “Runs on helium.”

It was all Martian magic, of course; it could probably run on mushrooms. I made my way back to the cockpit area and hit the red door button several times. My knuckles were raw and bleeding on both hands. “The door doesn’t work.”

“See if you can pull the rubber strip off one of the windows. The one over the wing there.” Roz had longer fingernails, so she was able to pick it away. There was a red ribbon along the bottom that said PULL AND KICK in various languages. We both pulled on the ribbon and it made a click sound. I punched the window out with a single kick, and it whacked my shin on the way down.

“Get out there with a weapon,” Namir said, gasping. He’d just stopped giving Dustin mouth-to-mouth. “We’ll have company.”

“Is Dustin?” I said.

“He’s breathing,” Namir said, and slid an assault rifle down the aisle. I picked it up and painfully got my head and one shoulder through its strap. Got both legs through the window, dropped onto the broken wing, and slid to the ground. Managed not to poke the rifle barrel into the dirt.

Some bird chirped in a long, monotone scold, but otherwise there was only a sigh of wind in the pines and the wreck’s small metallic noises. Hot-metal smell and newly turned earth.

I stepped away a few paces and could see our path of destruction. Saplings snapped off, pointing this way. Three deep gouges in the forest loam. From this low angle, I couldn’t see the road Paul had aimed for.

Rico and Stack dead, maybe Dustin. Probably no medical help any closer than Funny Farm. More than fifty miles away, in some direction.

“Don’t shoot?” It was a woman’s voice, not far away.

“I won’t,” I said. “Where are you?”

A gray-haired woman in a brown shift stepped out from behind a dense bramble. “You have a plane wreck?”

No, this is the way we like to land. “The power went out. The Others turned it off a couple of days early.”

She looked at a watch on her wrist and nodded. “First the god damned governor and now the god damned aliens. Be an earthquake next. You from NASA?”

I still had the coveralls on, though they wouldn’t pass inspection, blood and all. “No. I was their guest.” That was inane, or at least inadequate.

“Other survivors on the plane?”

I nodded. “Some injured. Is there a hospital?”

“Town’s six, seven miles. Come up to the place, though. We have a cabin down the road here, get you cleaned up.” She stepped forward and offered her hand. “Germaine Lerner.”

I shook her hand and was relieved that she didn’t recognize my name. “Others who need more than just cleaning up. Help me with them?”

“See what we can do.” She was about my age—thirties, not eighties—and stout and muscular.

When we got back to the plane, Roz was resting at the base of the tree, and Namir was on the ground, helping Paul lower Dustin down the wing. Dustin was awake but pale.

“We think broken ribs and collarbone,” Namir said. “Hello?”

Germaine introduced herself. “We can make him a pallet on the floor. I’m afraid my husband has dibs on the bed. He’s doing poorly.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“He was coming back from town on a motorcycle when the bombs dropped. He didn’t wipe out, but he got burned by it.”

“How close was he?” Namir said. “To where it went off.”

“I don’t know. It’s not like they make an explosion. Close enough he felt the heat inside his body.”

He winced. “There might be some radiation medicine in the plane’s first-aid kit. He ought to go to a hospital, though.”

“Urgent care center’s closer. I suspect there’ll be a lot of people there.” She stepped up and put her arm around Dustin, guiding his arm around her shoulder. “Come on, now.”

Paul slid down the wing, pretty spry and looking a little better, most of the blood wiped off his face. Elza backed clumsily out of the window, her left arm in a sling improvised from a shirt.

“Card will be all right,” she said to me. “He’s dizzy, and I told him to rest for a bit.”

“I’ll come back for him,” I said. “Let’s follow Germaine to her place and take stock.”

“I’ll wait here,” Namir said, easing down against the wing, propping his machine gun in easy reach. “We’ll need a shovel if you have one.”

“Got two,” Germaine said. “Take care of the living first.” She walked off, easily supporting Dustin, following an invisible trail.

Their cabin was only a few minutes’ walk. It blended in well with the woods. Up close, you could see that the rough-hewn logs were fading plastic. Two three-wheeled motorcycles were parked in front, giving off an odd smell I remembered from childhood. “Those run on gasoline?”

“When we can find it. There’s a place in Yreka sometimes has it. Let me go in first.” I took Dustin from her. She pounded on the door three times and then opened it slightly. “Don’t shoot, it’s me. We got company.”

The man inside said something unintelligible. “That was a plane crash we heard.” She opened the door and stood in the doorway. “Some people hurt.”

He came out of the darkness and stood next to her, peering out, holding a shotgun. “You in the plane that dropped them bombs.”

“That wasn’t us,” Paul said.

“It was somebody, sure as hell.” The muzzle of the gun moved to point in our general direction.

“I’m a doctor,” Elza said. “I should look at those burns.”

“What burns?”

“The left side of your face. Germaine says you passed close to a hellbomb.”

“Nothing you can do about that.”

“Maybe I can.” She walked toward him, and he put the gun down inside the door. She held his hair aside and studied his skin. Put the back of her hand against his cheek. “Does this hurt?”

“No. A little.”

“Sick to your stomach?”

“A little.”

“You ought to lie down and rest.” To Germaine: “The care center should have oral marrow stimulant. Just to be on the safe side. Tell them he got close enough for a sunburn.”

She nodded. “God damn governor.”

The man muttered something about him being a good man anyhow, and she rolled her eyes. “Go lie down.”

“We’d better get to that care center ourselves,” Elza said. “Is that in Yreka?”

“No, just down the road in Holstock. I guess a couple hours, walking, though. Six or seven miles. Come in and get a drink first.”

We followed her in through the door. The cabin was a neat single room with two beds, two chairs, and a table. Boxes of food and dry goods, and a case of ammunition, opened.

“My grandfolks bought this place back in ’79, when the Martians first came.” She crossed to a sink and pumped a handle vigorously several times, and water gushed out. She filled the four glasses that were on the sink.

“So you were on NASA business in that plane?”

“We were trying to get to Funny Farm,” Roz said. “You know where that is?”

“Kind of. Never been there. Now that’s gonna be a walk.” She handed out the glasses.

“You know which way we go?” Paul took a sip and passed me his glass.

“I’ve been up that way,” the man said. “Give me the map.”

She got a plastic map from the table drawer and he unfolded it. He rubbed it for magnification, but, of course, nothing happened.

“Lucky it has a picture at all,” he muttered, and put a thick finger down in the middle of nowhere. “You follow the gravel road about three mile, where it makes a T with a two-lane. Go to the right, and it takes you into Holstock. Urgent care is there on the main street. Don’t know what you gonna pay with.”

“We’ll sort that out with them,” Roz said. “From there we go south?”

“Not unless you’re a bird. Crossroads in the middle of town, that’s County 2031. You might want to go north, to the left. Right would take you down to Yreka. I heard gunfire there and turned around.”

“But left goes up to the border.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to go that far.” He leaned close to the map, where he had his finger down. “Black dotted line here, that’s a fire road, gravel, won’t be marked. You follow it eight or ten mile, you get to the autoway, 241.”

“Which is where we took off from, this morning.” Paul studied it and pointed to where a blue line crossed 241. “That’s the river that goes by Funny Farm.” It was about an inch away. “What is that, fifty miles?”

“Forty, anyhow. Pretty hilly.”

“We have a lot of empty jugs,” I said. “Mind if we fill them up here?”

“Course,” she said. “You have food up at Funny Farm?”

“Eighty acres planted,” Roz said.

“Well, you can take some of ours to get there,” she said, “but you remember us, right? We might be knocking on your door one day.”

“We’ll remember,” Roz said. “I guess that’s the way of the world now.”

“The Lord helps them that helps themselves,” she said, staring at Roz. “But we are all His instruments.”

We emptied the plane wreck of everything that would be of value to us or our hosts. We pried out the executive folding bed from behind the cockpit for them; besides the water, they gave us a box of dehydrated emergency meals, enough to feed us all for several days. After that, I guess we’d have to shoot a deer or catch some fish. Germaine gave us some line; both Namir and Dustin knew something about fishing.

Paul insisted that I not help with the grave-digging, and I didn’t protest much. My palms were raw. Elza had snipped away the flaps of skin and dressed them with gauze.

I helped wrap Alba and Rico and Stack in blue NASA blankets, while the others used pick and shovel to carve holes out of the root-laced soil.

There was some grisly discussion of the riot gun and Alba’s thumb. For it to fire, it had to read her thumbprint on the pistol grip. We didn’t know whether the sensor would work without power. Namir studied it, though, and used a screwdriver and hex wrench to disable it. The thing would only fire single-shot, but how many shots would you need?

She had been Christian, so we improvised a cross marker and Germaine read from the Bible. Rico and Stack were atheists, but Roz quoted Buddha for them, for their journey.

Our own journey shouldn’t be long delayed, but we were all exhausted, and the sun was going down. Elza and Dustin, with their broken bones, got Germaine’s discarded bed. We gave Card the pallet Germaine had made for Dustin. Elza had managed to stitch up his head wound one-handed, with my help.

Card didn’t seem too badly hurt, but he hadn’t said two words, and he didn’t seem to follow conversations. Maybe he was dwelling on his other personalities, still as dead as Alba and Rico and Stack.

I took a cup of tea out to where he was sitting alone on the cabin porch. He didn’t respond when I set the tea down next to him.

“Almost too much to handle,” I said.

“Almost?” He made a ghastly smile, a grimace. “I thought that nothing I would ever do would be crazier than Mars. Maybe it wasn’t Mars, though—maybe it was you. I had a nice, quiet life until you came back into it. Now everything is completely fucked up and confusing and people are dying left and right!”

“Drink the tea, Card.”

“But it’s true! If you hadn’t stumbled on the Martians they’d still be hiding underground, and we wouldn’t have the Others fucking with every fucking thing.”

“They were right next door. If I hadn’t stumbled onto them, someone else would.”

“But someone else didn’t. You’re to blame for the whole fucking shooting match.”

It’s not as if I had never followed that line of reasoning myself. “So what do you suggest I do?”

He wiped away tears. “If you had a time machine, you could go back and kill yourself before it started.”

“Sure, that would work.”

“This might.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a revolver.

I jumped back. “Card!”

“Oh, don’t worry.” He put the muzzle of the gun to his temple and laughed. “Watch.” He pulled the trigger and it made a loud click.

“You should see your face.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say or do. He took out a box of bullets and fumbled six into the cylinder, dropping two but ignoring them. He put the gun back into his pocket and, tears streaming past a smile, started up the path toward the wreck and the graves.

For a couple of minutes I stood there on the edge, waiting for a single shot. Paul came out onto the porch.

“Where is your brother?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not his keeper.”