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Well, except for the jungle. It was still a wall of darkest, deepest, scariest green.
Dax said, “Get a pencil. Now.” He really was struggling to keep his eyes open.
“Okay, okay …” Her travel purse was on the pilot-side backseat where she’d thrown it while clearing the floor. She reached back and grabbed it, took the pen from the little slot on the side, got the small spiral notebook she always carried from another side pocket. “All right. I’m ready.”
He groaned. And then he muttered a latitude and a longitude. “Those were our coordinates as of right before I brought us down.”
She wrote them in her notebook. “You do think of everything.”
He didn’t answer her. She looked over at him. His eyes were closed, his fine mouth slack.
Good. He needed to rest. And he wasn’t going to be doing much of anything when he woke up, not with that ankle. For him, for the next several days, hiking to higher ground was not in the cards. And the signal fire? If she couldn’t find a hill very close, she would build it in the clearing.
But not right this minute. For now, they had shelter and a case of bottled water and other clothing when it came to that—and she thought there were blankets in back, too, travel blankets.
She glanced over at Dax again. He was slumped against the other door, his head at a really uncomfortable-looking angle.
Slowly, trying not to hurt his poor ankle any worse, she lifted his foot off her knees. He groaned and tossed his head. She froze. A moment later, with a heavy sigh, he settled down again.
It was a tight fit, but she lowered her seat back and managed to slip out from under him and over the console through the space between the seats. Carefully, she lowered his poor foot to the seat cushion.
Then she put her pen and notebook away and turned for the tangle of suitcases and boxes in the baggage area.
She found a couple of small pillows, the expected travel blankets—and, in a large box bolted to the bulkhead, she found a miracle.
There was toilet paper, paper towels, matches, a collapsible camping shovel, a couple of dismantled camp chairs she could assemble when the time came. There were two heavy-duty flashlights, a big battery-operated lantern, two oil-burning lanterns with fuel canisters, a small tent, a hatchet … and more. Two cups, two plates. Basic flatware. Two pans for carrying and heating water. There were field glasses and a compass, fishing gear and even a pair of mean-looking hunting knives.
If she could find a stream, she might try fishing. Or maybe she could just jump some jungle creature and stab it with one of the knives. The options, she thought drily, were endless, if somewhat unpleasant.
Right after that, she found several bags of freeze-dried food underneath all the other stuff. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go hunting anytime soon after all.
She carried the pillows up in front, eased them under Dax’s head and then shook him awake long enough to get him to put his other leg up on her empty seat. She braced the zipped first aid kit, a folded blanket on top, under his bad ankle.
He didn’t need a blanket over him. It was plenty warm in the cabin.
For a minute or two, she watched him sleep. He look so good with his shirt off, just as she’d imagined him, with great muscle definition, gorgeous six-pack abs and quite the cute silky-looking happy trail. She didn’t begrudge herself a nice, long look. Hey, at this point, anything that took her mind off their desperate situation was a good thing to be doing.
But she couldn’t stare at him forever. Reality insisted on intruding. She sat in one of the rear seats, checked her D90, the lenses and the spare camera she’d stored in a suitcase. All had been protected by the padding in their carry cases and were good as new.
That her cameras were okay cheered her somehow. Things could definitely be worse, right?
She started wondering where, exactly, they might have gone down, and considered getting out the paper maps they carried. But later for that. For now, she knew as much as she needed to know: that they were south of the Tropic of Cancer somewhere, in the Mexican jungle. Still in Mexico, because the storm hadn’t lasted long enough to blow them too far off-course. And even the big fuel capacity of the Cessna 400 wasn’t that big, not big enough to carry them all the way to Guatemala or Belize.
How long would it be before someone got worried and sent out searchers? They were due to meet Ramón Esquevar for dinner in their beautiful hotel at eight. When they weren’t there to meet him maybe? Or even earlier, when they didn’t show up at the Tuxtla Gutiérrez airport per their filed flight plan?
She shook her head. Probably not that soon.
Who knew how such things worked?
A small, absurd whimper tried to squeeze out of her throat. She didn’t let it. She was strong and whole and smart and she could deal with this. She would deal with this.
When Dax woke up, he would help her deal with this. Yes, there was the sprained ankle, the gash on his head. But he knew how to survive in a hostile environment. He’d been to a lot of wild places in the world, roughing it, and lived to tell the tale.
What time was it now? Her watch, which seemed to be working fine, said almost four. They didn’t do daylight savings in Chiapas, and she’d reset it to San Cristóbal time when they left Nuevo Laredo. When would dark come? She said a little prayer of thanks for Dax’s preparedness. For the box bolted in the bulkhead, with the lanterns and the flashlights and everything else.
When Dax woke up, they would figure out what to do next. Until then, she would simply sit here, safe in the battered plane, and wait.
Except that, all of a sudden, she really, really had to pee.
Which meant she would have to go outside while Dax slept after all.
Hey, at least she had toilet paper.
And a little foray into the clearing wouldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t go far. She’d take care of business, have a quick look around and duck back inside.
She got the shovel and a roll of paper and set about getting out of the plane, which entailed pushing the back of the passenger seat forward—but not far enough to disturb Dax’s propped-up ankle. She held the seat out of the way with one hand and turned the latch to the door with the other.
Wonder of wonders, with only slight resistance, the door went up.
A wall of sticky air came in and wrapped around her—not to mention all the weird jungle sounds: insects buzzing and whirring, birds whose calls she didn’t recognize crying in the distance. Rustling noises that instantly brought mental images of scary creatures slithering through the underbrush. She stuck her head out and made the mistake of looking down first.
Only a jagged stump remained where the wing should have been. It must have broken off when the propeller dug in and spun them around like a carnival ride.
Well, all right, then. Even if somehow Dax could manage to get the engine going, they would not be flying out of here in this plane. Yet one more faint hope shattered.
Not that she was going to let negativity take over. She straightened her shoulders and looked around.
Bits of the lost wing littered the area. And without the barrier of the window glass, the jungle only looked darker, denser. If someone was out there, watching from the trees, she would never see them unless they wanted her to.
An image of a group of Zapatista types, in berets and military clothing, armed to the teeth, with great chains of ammo wrapped crossways around their chests, popped into her mind.
But it was only an image. No one emerged to wave an AK-47 at her.
Some small insect buzzed near her ear and she gave it a slap.
Maybe she should put on a shirt.
Another tiny bug attacked. She felt a sting on the side of her neck. She smacked it and then ducked back into the cabin, shutting the door behind her, hauling out her suitcase from the baggage area and grabbing a lightweight shirt with long sleeves and pulling it on. Her legs, in the shorts, would still be vulnerable to bites. But she couldn’t cover everything.
There was bug repellent in the back, but her bladder wouldn’t wait for that.
Again, she eased the seat forward, swung the door up and tossed the shovel out. Gripping the roll of toilet paper, she dropped down after it, being careful to clear the jagged stub of the wing. The landing gear was gone, too, snapped clean off during the spinning that had ripped away the wing. The belly of the plane rested on the ground. She could easily reach the open door to swing it shut.
For a few seconds, she stood there, swatting at insects, looking around at the small, flat, clear space in the middle of who-knew-where. The tall trees were way, way up there, their wide, thick crowns swaying in a wind that didn’t reach the ground. She gazed up, watched a bird sail across the clear blue. It let out a long, fading cry as it went by, a prehistoric sound, the kind the pterodactyls made in Jurassic Park. When the ancient cry bled off into nothing, the pressure in her bladder reminded her why she’d come out here in the first place.
No time like the present. She grabbed the shovel and figured out how to extend the handle. There were pegs that popped out along the sides. She stuck the shovel head into the wet ground and hung the paper on a peg.
And then quickly, she took care of business. When that was done, she buried the paper she’d used and then decided on one quick look around before going back inside.
The clearing was a little smaller and narrower than a football field and the plane lay approximately in the center of it. She walked straight out from the passenger door to the edge of the trees, counting off the steps: sixty-five of them. The jungle really was like a wall of living green. She wouldn’t try to go in there—not without at least a compass, a knife and the hatchet from that box in the plane.
Instead, she walked the perimeter of the clear space. She found five narrow trails leading off into the undergrowth at various, random-seeming places along the clearing’s rim. Made by animals or humans? She had no idea which. All five trails looked well-worn, the thick roots of the trees snaking across them, ready to trip the unwary hiker.
She shivered at the thought that she would probably be going in there, most likely by herself—not yet, though. She would wait until tomorrow morning, when Dax was awake and could advise her on jungle safety. And maybe, if they were very lucky and rescue came quickly, she would never have to go in there at all.
Another of those prehistoric-sounding birds went by overhead. And the cries and rustlings continued from deep in the trees. She went back to the plane and felt only relief to hoist the door and climb to safety within.
Dax was still out cold. And a few of those tiny biting fly-like creatures had joined them inside. She got bug repellent from her suitcase and rubbed it on herself and then on him.
Did he seem too warm? She laid her palm against the side of his face. Maybe a little. But surely not more than a degree or two above normal.
“Water?” he muttered, coming half-awake.
She gave him some. He drank and sank right back into oblivion.
Oh, how she wished she could go there with him. She remembered the bottle of codeine tucked into the first aid kit and thought of taking one herself, of the blessed relief of surrendering to drugged slumber.
She did no such thing. But just the fact that she thought of it brought home, yet again, the deep trouble they were in. She tried to look on the bright side, go over all the things that had actually gone right, beginning with how they weren’t dead or critically injured.
How Dax had remembered their location as recently as a minute or two before he tried to land.
The bright side somehow, didn’t seem all that bright.
She changed the cold pack on Dax’s ankle and then busied herself straightening up the cabin as best she could, gathering the two bloody shirts, stuffing them in an old canvas tote she’d brought along. Maybe later she could wash them, if she could find a stream. They would never be white again, but in the jungle, who was going to care? If nothing else, they would do as cloths for washing, for drying their few dishes and cups.
In the box with the camping gear, she found flares. They would be at least as good as a signal fire, should a plane go by overhead. She took them out and put them on the floor of the rear seat, close at hand.
It had been hours since she’d eaten—since her early breakfast of a protein drink and toast. Her stomach seemed to have shut down, probably some natural reaction to the shock of what had happened.
But she knew that she needed to eat to keep up her strength. So she got a bag of freeze-dried beef stew and poured some water in it. It was not delicious. She gagged it down anyway and found she felt marginally better afterward, stronger.
Dax should probably try to eat something, too. She found a bag of maple sugar oatmeal, added water and tried to feed it to him. He woke up, ate a few bites, and then mumbled, “No. No more … water?”
She gave him some. He went back to sleep and she ate the rest of the oatmeal so it wouldn’t go to waste.
Outside, it was still daylight, would be for at least a couple of hours. She had some books on her laptop, but it seemed somehow foolish to start wearing down the battery. So she got out the paper maps that were required for small-plane travel, and her pen and notebook and marked the coordinates Dax had given her.
She learned that they were in the Chiapan wilderness, miles and miles north of San Cristóbal. She stared at the small dot she’d made on the map for a long time, as if just by looking at it, she could figure out how to get them out of here.
No magic realization as to escape came to her. She yawned and leaned her head against the seat and thought wearily that at last the adrenaline from all this excitement was wearing off. Even shaky, scared crash victims get tired eventually.
She got up and changed the cold pack on Dax’s ankle again. He didn’t stir and seemed to be sleeping peacefully.
Then, since she could think of nothing else that needed doing right that instant, she put the rear seat as far back as it would go and closed her eyes.
Her sleep was fitful. She dreamed of a party in a big, rambling house. She roamed from room to room. Everyone was having a great time and she didn’t know anyone there.
And then she started dreaming that she was at work, at Great Escapes. No one was there. The place was empty. But then she heard Dax. He was moaning, calling out, saying strange, garbled, things. Words she didn’t understand, nonsense syllables.
In her dream, she looked for him. She called to him, but couldn’t find him.
Slowly, she woke and realized where she was, lost in the Chiapan jungle somewhere, in a wrecked plane. And Dax was in the front seat, tossing around, moaning.
It was dark out. She got the battery-run lantern from the box in back. Switching it on, she craned over the seats and Dax’s agitated form. She set the lantern on the floor in front. The powerful beam, focused on the ceiling, gave plenty of weirdly slanted, glaring light.
She bent over Dax. He was moaning, tossing his head, scrunched down at a neck-breaking angle against the pilot-side door.
He mumbled to himself, “No … tired … cold … hot …” And then a flood of nonsense words. He shivered, violently.
And he was sweating—his face and chest were shiny wet. She was glad she’d wrapped the bandage around his head. If she’d settled for taping it on, so much sweat would likely have loosened it. She reached over the seat to try to ease him back up onto the pillows.
The heat of his skin shocked her. He was burning up.
Chapter Six
Dax was a little boy again. His mother was gone. She had been gone for a whole year now.
She had “passed on,” his Nanny Ellen said. Jesus had taken her to be with the angels.
Dax thought that was very mean of Jesus. The angels didn’t need a mother. Not like a little boy did. The angels were beautiful and they could fly. They wore white dresses and had long, gold hair.
His father got angry when he heard what Nanny Ellen said about his mother going to the angels. His dad said Nanny shouldn’t fill the boy’s head with silly superstition—and then he got his briefcase and went to work.
Dax’s dad was always working. Always gone. Dax had Nanny Ellen and he liked the stories Nanny told, about the angels, about the loaves and fish that were always enough to feed the hungry people, no matter how many of them there were. He liked Nanny Ellen.
But he liked his dad more. He loved his dad. Someday he would be all grown-up. He would go to work like his dad and his dad would talk to him because he would be a man, a man who worked, not a little boy who wanted his dad with him and missed his mother.
There was a hand on his cheek, a gentle hand. The hand slipped around and cradled his head. A woman’s voice said, “Shh, now. It’s okay. You’re going to get better, Dax. Drink this …”
He opened his eyes. Slowly, a woman’s face came into focus, a tired face, but a beautiful one. The woman had red hair and the bluest eyes.
He thought that he wanted to kiss her, to touch the soft skin of her cheek. If only he weren’t so worn out.
So weak.
He remembered, then. He was a man now. And his dad was dead, too, as dead as his mom. And there had been something … something that had happened.
Something that was all his fault.
Wait.
Now he remembered. He knew what he’d done. They were supposed to fly commercial. She’d had it all set up. But he had insisted that he would fly them.
And he had. Right into the jungle. Right into the ground.
He drank from the cup she put to his lips. It was warm, what she gave him. A warm broth. And that surprised him. They were somewhere deep in the jungle, after all, with no stove or microwave in sight. He said the word, “Warm …”
She smiled at him, a smile as beautiful as those of any of Nanny Ellen’s angels. “I built a fire, in the clearing. I’ve managed to keep it going.”
