by Quinn, Fiona
With my plane at the top of the runway full of fuel, I rested. I ate from my backpack and drank from my water bottles. I only exited to potty, and I didn’t walk away from the plane. Even though the location was somewhat protected by the hills on either side of the runway and from the pine trees that grew thick and tall, the plane still rocked and creaked ominously.
It didn’t rain where I was, but the wind was terrifying. I thought it might catch under the wings and roll me like a wave breaking on the shore. The lightening strobed like a disco laser show. It was stunning and nightmare inducing. Thunder was a constant. The storm wasn’t letting up. I listened to the radio, and it seemed that the weather system had stalled in the Gulf causing catastrophic flooding to the islands. I portioned my food and water to last me through the storm.
I had thought I might be stuck here for a day or two, and then once I was in the air again, I was only a short flight to freedom – the US. But I was sadly, very sadly, mistaken.
My body wasn’t doing well. I was in dire straits. I probably weighed less than a hundred pounds once I left the prison. Jogging eighteen miles had taxed my last reserves. The food that Franco gave me was far too rich for my system – after living on only beans and rice for so long. I couldn’t keep any of it down, and now I was out of food and on my last half bottle of water. I made the decision to fly to Guantanamo, on a wing and a prayer, as it were. My life wasn’t the only one at stake. Every day that went by, was a day that Pablo suffered and drew closer to death. I needed to save him.
I found some paper and a pen and wrote my goodbye letters. I wasn’t giving up; I was just being prepared. Stories don’t always have the hoped-for ending, no matter how hard the person fights for their happily-ever-after. No guarantees in this life. Nope. None.
My first letter I wrote to Striker. I told him how I’d tried to save myself; I’d never given up trying to get back to him. I asked him — as a gift to my memory — to help Pablo. I told him the story, vaguely, leaving out the part of how I knew about this little boy, and the part about Franco’s help with my escape, in case my letter landed in the wrong hands.
I told Striker how much I was in love with him. It was my great shame to have been too fragile and self-protective to be able to say that out loud to him. I told him that I knew how painful it was to experience the loss he was going to be experiencing, how ironic I found it that I had begged him not to go away and die and hurt me. And here, I was the one to go away and die and leave him alone to mourn my memory. I would never have chosen to cause him this kind of pain.
As I worked on my letters, I realized I had no will, so I wrote one out. I left my wedding rings to Striker that and the gold brooch he had given me as my Christmas gift with my mistletoe kiss the morning this whole fiasco started, and Spyder came into town. These were my symbols of love and commitment. I knew he’d understand their meaning.
I left my duplex and everything in it to my neighbor Missy. That would give her a safe place to live and the income from the rental side. I left my girls, Beetle and Bella, to Gater the Great, with thanks for his affection. I left my motorcycle to Jack, with the hope that he would never be ambushed again. My car went to Blaze, and to Deep I left my guns and my gym equipment, with thanks for all of our times training together. I asked that my money be put into educational accounts for all of my neighborhood kiddos. It wouldn’t be much, split up between them; it was more a gesture of hope for their future and my joy in having known them.
I wrote what I knew about Maria – hopefully someone would go after her if… well if worse came to worse. My final note was to Spyder. Maria was wrong. I was his daughter. We loved each other. He was just off-grid – incommunicado, or too sick, still. Something. There was a reason, a good one, that Spyder didn’t help me.
I fell asleep in the back of the plane, wrapped in the moth-eaten wool blanket. I woke up to nothing.
Nothing?
I peeked out. The trees still swayed, but gently now. Debris stippled the clearing. I had to go. I had to go! Guantanamo wasn’t far away. They’d feed me and get me medical attention. I cleared off the runway as best I could. I started the engine and looked down at my instrument panel. Fried.
A direct lightning strike? I sat in stunned disbelief. I could still fly, but I had no navigation and no communication systems. A chill ran through me. I leaned over the yoke as a sob broke free. No Guantanamo. I couldn’t announce myself and surely flying — unidentified and unannounced — into a military area on high alert was certain death. I would have to navigate off the sun and aim for the US coastline. Ah, there were my expletives again. The familiar refrain of cuss words sang through my head in three-part-cacophony.
I took off. While the wind seemed calmer on the ground, these were still near-impossible flying conditions. As I climbed higher, things got worse. I didn’t stand a chance heading for Miami under these circumstances. I put the wind at my back, which pointed me north-west. That gave the body of my plane some relief. Where would that land me? Northern Mexico? Texas? Did I have enough fuel to get that far? For a girl who announces, constantly, that she didn’t do daring deeds of do or die, I sure as hell ended up in a lot of situations that required daring deeds of freaking do or die.
I was getting disoriented and faint — mentally and physically desperate. After flying for hours with the bright sunlight glaring into my right eye, I spotted a coast line up ahead, and I came in low. I had been trying to decide which I was more afraid of, getting picked up on radar and not being able to hear or respond by radio or coming in without being spotted? I didn’t know what the FAA did about aircraft which didn’t respond. I’d never not responded before, and it never occurred to me to ask. I guessed it depended a little bit on where I was flying, and what was near me. I thought southeast Texas was probably riddled with oil rigs and military installations. I decided to try to fly in low enough to avert radar, and see if I could get a cell phone connection.
I still had a trickle of battery left on my phone. I kept it turned off until I was pretty darned sure that I would succeed. I turned my cell phone on and off. As soon as the first bars blipped onto my screen, I called.
“911. What is your emergency?”
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is India Alexis Sobado from Iniquus. I am flying a Cessna C500. I was hit by lightning and have lost electric. I have no navigation equipment or communication equipment. Please advise.” I spoke as clearly as I could, but my voice quivered like the strings on a harp. Nerves. I waited for a response, but none came. I looked down. My call had dropped. I waited again for a bar to show up.
“911. What is your emergency?”
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is India Sobado. Iniquus. Cessna C500. No fuel. No navigation or communication. I’m going down. HELP ME.”
“Ma’am, we are in contact with the FAA can you…”
Dropped.
Dropped?
No more battery.
My plane sputtered. I glided low over the desert. The wind buffeted me left and right. Not a single thought ran through my head. I flew by instinct alone, doing what I had been taught to do. Step one…two…then three.
I hit down hard. The sand didn’t let my plane lose its forward momentum by taxi-ing properly. Basically, I thunked down, rolled a bit, then went plane’s nose into the sand, my chest to the yoke, head to the dash, blackness. . .
It was nighttime when I came to. I tried to breathe deeply, but my ribs were broken—each shallow gulp was excruciating. Under exploring fingers I found blood caking my face. I lifted my head… Dizzy. Blurred vision. God, I had a monster headache. Concussion? Whiplash? Both? No way to help myself but to lie still. I wrapped my neck in my hoodie to protect my spine. I wished for ace bandages to support my ribs, but I knew from my time caught on the island that there was no first aid kit.
I pulled myself to the back of the plane to lie down. I said prayers of thanksgiving that I had made it back to America. This must be America; 911 picked up my call. I knew they h
eard my first distress call, because the second person knew that the FAA had been contacted.
I felt the plane shivering and shaking as the storm picked up again. It followed me from the east. With a sinking heart, I knew no one would look for me until the winds died down. Might as well get comfortable — no point in setting out signals.
I slept. How many days had gone by? I think maybe two. During the day the plane heated up like a furnace. On the first day, when the temperatures were so unbearable, I tried to lie in the shade under a wing. But there was no good place to go. Inside, I broiled. Outside, the wind wicked what little moisture I had out of my body; the sand abraded my skin. I put the smallest amounts of water into my mouth. I tried to stretch out the few drops I had left. I stopped sweating. That was a bad thing. I was vomiting again, which was even worse. Looked like dehydration had kicked in…heat stroke. Simple things — seeing, breathing, and staying upright – felt like a marathon run. The weather conditions exacerbated my impact injuries. I focused on a steely will to win.
Today, the wind died down considerably. Probably this was the first day when anyone could even think about getting off the ground for a search. I figured it was getting close to being my “last chance for hope” day. If no one comes and finds me? Well, I didn’t really want to go there in my mind. Survival was my focus.
I pulled myself outside the plane to look around with an eye to signaling. All I saw was desert - austere and forlorn on the ground as it had been from the sky. Coming in, I scanned the horizon for rivers, houses, anything that would help me. All I had seen was dirt. Some cacti dotted the landscape. I’d never been to this part of the US; this terrain was foreign to me. I didn’t know what plants were edible and which were poisonous. I knew, in theory, how to test them, but my mind was so untrustworthy right now that I wasn’t willing to try.
I realized my landing gear had broken off when I hit down. Just as well. It saved me a lot of problems. I dragged myself about, positioning the tires in a huge triangle around the plane. A rattlesnake slithered past. That made me laugh. Of course. Why not? Add rattlesnakes to my list of how to botch my own rescue mission. I took the flight books from the cockpit and lit them on fire with the book of matches Franco had put in my pack. I set the flame against the rubber tires. Black smoke plumed into the air. I sat under the wing and watched the sky as best I could, waiting to use the mirror to signal.
Hallucinations. Faces swirled in front of me: Pablo crying; Franco and Elicia in frantic prayer, begging.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I failed you. Forgive me,” I prayed.
Grandmother Sybil threw herbs into the fire and called to the sky.
I saw Striker and Gater, Blaze, Jack and Deep; they were doing a lot of yelling in my head and cussing.
I thought I would see my mom and dad, and Angel. Surely Angel would come and help me cross over. Where were my loved ones? Why wouldn’t they be offering me solace and support as I left this terrestrial world to join them? I thought about trying to go behind the Veil again. I wanted to see if I couldn’t get help for myself; but I was afraid that I’d never find my way back to my body.
Buzzards circled overhead. Hysterical. They had actually found me and were circling. Who knew that really happened? I thought that was stuff of Saturday morning cartoons. I guessed the black smoke helped to keep them away. When I really thought that I didn’t have another breath, I’d try to get in the plane so the birds wouldn’t gouge out my eye balls and peck my flesh from my bones. I shuddered at the image.
My thoughts were raging, crazy. Sometimes I floated in beautiful peace. Other times, I fought monsters in my brain. I was end-stage. My time had come. I crawled into the plane up to the pilot’s seat and laid back.
In my head, I heard Gater calling to me. “We’re trying. We’re trying, Lynx! Where are you?”
I thought about Striker and Bayard Taylor’s beautiful words sang in my ears:
From the Desert I come to thee
On a stallion shod with fire;
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire.
Under thy window I stand,
And the midnight hears my cry:
I love thee, I love but thee,
With a love that shall not die
Ironic as hell how much I have always loved this poem, “Bedouin’s Song,” and it was turning out to be my dirge.
I had lost my grip on reality. My brain responded to the toxic poisons circulating in my body. Fear wrapped me in a tight embrace, holding me back as I tried to push death away. That felt futile.
Exhaustion. Pain. Turbulence. That was how my end was coming to me. In my mind’s eye, a helicopter landed in the desert. I saw the faces of those I love: Gater, Deep, Blaze, Jack… Striker. I wanted to say goodbye to them, to thank them for all they had been to me — for trying so hard to help. Sand swirled around my plane, making it impossible for me to see anything beyond my closed eyes. And, oh, just to see my friends’ faces. . .
In my hallucinations, Striker ran, shouting. He jerked the door open, and I fell into his arms. My last thought, I hope you know how much I love you, Striker. You can stop searching now.
I was pretty sure I was dead.
THE END
Preview Book Three
CHAIN LYNX
One
Death was louder than I expected. I didn’t think there would be any noise at all, only a bright light to guide me. Where were my loved ones who had passed on? Shouldn’t they be here to lead me — to help me transition from the corporeal life to life everlasting? Mom and Dad should be here. My husband, Angel. My dear friend, Snow Bird…but I was alone with the sound of thundering wind and yelling.
My body jolted. Liquid fire saturated my skin. I lay smoldering at the edge of a wide abyss. If I slid an inch to my left, I’d fall straight to the Devil’s door. What did I do to find myself at Hell’s Gate? My mind scrambled. I had indeed committed the worst possible of sins. I’d killed four people in my lifetime. Once in self-defense — a psychopath, Travis Wilson, had stalked me and tried to skin me alive. Surely, God would forgive me my will to live.
The other three were bank robbers. They’d taken twenty-two people hostage. A bullet tore through an elderly lady’s brain. The robber was pressing his Glock to a pregnant woman’s temple, making a show of his ruthlessness for the SWAT team outside. I’d been in the building, armed, on an operation for Iniquus. Protecting innocents was just an extension of my job, and killing those men were not sins in my mind. But they must have been, and this must be the road to Perdition.
Something in my soul clung to the idea of justice. Damnation was not the path I would voluntarily roam for eternity. I sensed the Devil, red-faced and gloating, reaching out his craggy hand, laughing as he tried to drag me over the edge. “No,” my mind screamed as I desperately tried to scuttle away from the chasm, the smell, the heat, and the sound. “God, help me. God, please help me.”
As if on cue, peace quenched the inferno that raged through my veins. With the flames from Hell’s threshold extinguished, I floated away from evil into nothingness.
Time danced inevitably forward. I felt solid again. A bright light assaulted my pupils. Not the light of Heaven’s beauty, but a pen light, checking for dilation.
“She’s coming around,” the man in a lab coat said.
Striker’s face came into view. “Lynx? Lynx, can you hear me?”
I tried to work my jaw muscles to respond. I couldn’t. Something large and hard filled my mouth. The trickle of tears sliding down my cheek was the only signal I could muster. The salt stung my cuts and abrasions and burned my face.
“Lynx, if you can understand me, squeeze my hand.” Striker used his commander voice, even and authoritative.
I was loopy, heavily drugged, but that much I could do.
“Chica, you’re safe. We’re taking good care of you. I need you to keep fighting. Don’t leave me now.”
Unable to move, unable to speak, I c
losed my eyes and let myself drift back into the peace of the drugs flowing through my IV.
I knew that minutes and hours slid by. But it was an awareness that sat in an armchair, reading a book, muttering over the pages from time to time – not an awareness that actually held my attention or made me think. I lay stupefied on my bed. Slowly, I realized that Striker was rubbing a finger up and down my arm, trying to rouse me.
“Lynx? I need you to open your eyes. Look at me.”
I worked hard to comply, squinting up at his face through a morphine haze. I felt the sturdiness and strength of his body beside me. I wasn’t hallucinating him. He was real. Real? Yes, solid. Here. The relief I felt rushed through my body like a tidal wave, floating my emotions to the surface, and overwhelming me. My body quavered under the light cotton blanket.
As I focused on his face, Striker gave me a slightly crooked smile with a hint of dimples. His gaze, steady and warm, held mine, though worry made tire tracks between his green eyes. I breathed in deeply to form a happy sigh, until pain exploded my chest into bright colors, freezing me in place.
Striker’s thumb stroked over my jaw line. As I exhaled, the pain receded into the background.
“They’ve taken out your breathing tube. Can you say something?” He tried to hide the hitch in his voice behind a cough.
