footing
impossible.
Shane stumbled to
his knees. The woman’s body slipped off his shoulder and he caught her. He felt
weak and disoriented. The heat was intense and relentless, and he shambled
forward again. He thrust the woman’s head and upper body out the smashed
windshield, her lower body still trapped inside.
Behind Shane, the woman’s
cockpit seat burst into flames. He knew the male crewmember’s seat would follow
suit any second now, and his clothing would likely ignite next. He pushed
against the wreckage with his feet, his legs feeling rubbery and insubstantial.
He reached for the window frame and pulled his body through, wheezing and
coughing, choking down fresh air, amazed to still be alive.
There wasn’t room
to turn his body in the window frame like he had done on the way into the
plane; the female victim’s body took up too much room. So Shane wriggled
through the opening, dropping head-first out of the plane. He twisted as he
fell, trying to drop onto a shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t slice his head open on
the wreckage. He landed with a crash that jarred his body but left him
uninjured.
The night was
crystal-clear, and as he breathed deeply he felt as though his lungs had been
scoured with steel wool after sucking in the superheated air of the plane’s
interior. Coughing and hacking, he stood and reached back into the doomed
aircraft, grabbing the woman by the legs and trying to lift her clear of the
window frame. The left leg of her jeans was soaked with blood and he lost his
grip.
He wiped his hand,
smearing blood onto his clothing, and tried again. This time he grasped the
belt loops of her jeans and used them to pull her body upward. He was at an
awkward angle, making lifting her difficult. He glanced inside the cabin,
shocked at the sight. Flames engulfed the interior, tongues of orange racing
toward the unconscious woman’s legs.
He was out of
time. Giving up on lifting her clear, Shane locked his arms under her armpits
and dragged her body through the opening. He worried her already injured leg
would be sliced open further by shards of glass and metal but could not afford
to waste any more time.
Her body pulled
through inch by inch, the resistance substantial, as if the aircraft was
releasing its final victim only with extreme reluctance. Her knees cleared the
opening with a ripping sound that Shane could hear clearly even above the roar
of the fire.
Then she was free.
They tumbled backward, away from the wrecked plane, landing in a heap on the
forest floor. Shane rolled the woman’s body gently off his, then crouched next
to her and hefted her once more onto his shoulder. He struggled to his feet and
began moving as quickly as possible away from the aircraft toward the road.
He had lost his
flashlight in the confusion and pictured himself stumbling around blindly, lost
in the near-complete darkness, the woman dying because he might be within ten
feet of his car and never know it. At the edge of the clearing, Shane stopped
and took one last look at the devastation of the crash scene. It was a sight he
knew he would never forget.
Then he turned and
plunged into the darkness.
18
May 31, 1987
12:02 a.m.
Bangor, Maine
Shane was panting like a dog when
he finally reached the road. His legs burned and his back throbbed and the dead
weight of the unconscious woman slung over his shoulder felt like a thousand
pounds, rather than the one hundred or so she probably weighed.
He stumbled out of
the thick brush, grateful to have found his way out of the wilderness. The road
was brightly lit by the full moon, in stark contrast to the impenetrable
blackness under the canopy of trees. Shane peered in both directions, looking
for his car. There were still no rescue vehicles in sight, although he could
hear sirens off in the distance. Whether they were heading in this direction,
he couldn’t tell.
Far to the north,
Shane spotted an indistinct lump at the side of the road and decided it
impossible.
Shane stumbled to
his knees. The woman’s body slipped off his shoulder and he caught her. He felt
weak and disoriented. The heat was intense and relentless, and he shambled
forward again. He thrust the woman’s head and upper body out the smashed
windshield, her lower body still trapped inside.
Behind Shane, the woman’s
cockpit seat burst into flames. He knew the male crewmember’s seat would follow
suit any second now, and his clothing would likely ignite next. He pushed
against the wreckage with his feet, his legs feeling rubbery and insubstantial.
He reached for the window frame and pulled his body through, wheezing and
coughing, choking down fresh air, amazed to still be alive.
There wasn’t room
to turn his body in the window frame like he had done on the way into the
plane; the female victim’s body took up too much room. So Shane wriggled
through the opening, dropping head-first out of the plane. He twisted as he
fell, trying to drop onto a shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t slice his head open on
the wreckage. He landed with a crash that jarred his body but left him
uninjured.
The night was
crystal-clear, and as he breathed deeply he felt as though his lungs had been
scoured with steel wool after sucking in the superheated air of the plane’s
interior. Coughing and hacking, he stood and reached back into the doomed
aircraft, grabbing the woman by the legs and trying to lift her clear of the
window frame. The left leg of her jeans was soaked with blood and he lost his
grip.
He wiped his hand,
smearing blood onto his clothing, and tried again. This time he grasped the
belt loops of her jeans and used them to pull her body upward. He was at an
awkward angle, making lifting her difficult. He glanced inside the cabin,
shocked at the sight. Flames engulfed the interior, tongues of orange racing
toward the unconscious woman’s legs.
He was out of
time. Giving up on lifting her clear, Shane locked his arms under her armpits
and dragged her body through the opening. He worried her already injured leg
would be sliced open further by shards of glass and metal but could not afford
to waste any more time.
Her body pulled
through inch by inch, the resistance substantial, as if the aircraft was
releasing its final victim only with extreme reluctance. Her knees cleared the
opening with a ripping sound that Shane could hear clearly even above the roar
of the fire.
Then she was free.
They tumbled backward, away from the wrecked plane, landing in a heap on the
forest floor. Shane rolled the woman’s body gently off his, then crouched next
to her and hefted her once more onto his shoulder. He struggled to his feet and
began moving as quickly as possible away from the aircraft toward the road.
He had lost his
flashlight in the confusion and pictured himself stumbling around blindly, lost
in the near-complete darkness, the woman dying because he might be within ten
feet of his car and never know it. At the edge of the clearing, Shane stopped
and took one last look at the devastation of the crash scene. It was a sight he
knew he would never forget.
Then he turned and
plunged into the darkness.
18
May 31, 1987
12:02 a.m.
Bangor, Maine
Shane was panting like a dog when
he finally reached the road. His legs burned and his back throbbed and the dead
weight of the unconscious woman slung over his shoulder felt like a thousand
pounds, rather than the one hundred or so she probably weighed.
He stumbled out of
the thick brush, grateful to have found his way out of the wilderness. The road
was brightly lit by the full moon, in stark contrast to the impenetrable
blackness under the canopy of trees. Shane peered in both directions, looking
for his car. There were still no rescue vehicles in sight, although he could
hear sirens off in the distance. Whether they were heading in this direction,
he couldn’t tell.
Far to the north,
Shane spotted an indistinct lump at the side of the road and decided it
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