Page 12 of No Hope of Rescue

I tap my boots on the outside, trying to keep out the snow as much as possible.

The inside is in shambles. I glance around, feeling in the darker corners, and in an odd combination of horror and relief, I don’t find her.

All I have left is the image of the ruts outside.

Being careful not to torque my side too much, I shrug off the rest of my gear, fish out the neck of the camel, and suck down some water. When my legs start to buckle, I reach up and brace an arm against the ceiling to keep myself standing.

I’m an idiot for leaving the packs full of safety equipment with the vehicles.

I check under the pilot’s seat for a first aid kit.

Nothing.

Finding something to wrap up in leads to rifling through the interior in the dark. I reach for my cell phone. There’s no coverage here, but there’s a flashlight. Codie has my flashlight in her pack.

Cold is starting to affect my thinking. I remove the knife again, rip the upholstery from three seats, and carry the batting with me.

Moving to the rear of the plane, I shove some wooden crates out of the way, uninterested in how they’re marked or what’s inside. There’s a thick oilskin crumpled on the floor. After sitting down, I draw my legs up and lean against a crate, placing batting behind my neck and in front, my knees holding it in place. The idea is to insulate myself as well as possible. I need to sit out the snow, wrap the oilskin around me, and wait for morning.

I try to push terrible thoughts from my mind—Codie, possibly hurt, dead, in the cold, snow, ice, with men. Hurting her.

Two questions surface in the dark. Who are they? What are they doing?

Somehow, I know if I can find answers, I’ll find her.

΅

I’m not certain I sleep more than an hour at a time. The night must ratchet down to ten below. At one point, I look out a window and see stars. The short snow squall passed sometime during the night.

The next cognizant moment is sunrise. The sunlight must have been hitting the oilskin enough to generate some heat about my face because I’m warm.

As I shift the oilskin away from my face, it’s clear it’s not the sun. It’s still night.

I’m warm all over. This is what happens when you freeze to death.

I can’t get to Codie. I can’t help myself. This can’t be happening. The wind has kicked up again, and snow flurries beat down on the fuselage. The combination is loud, with torn metal shrieking, flapping, banging.

I know my mind is fogging up. The batting is stiff against my chest and belly. The sky is starting to brighten—pink streaks into the small fuselage from the open door and blown-out windows. Is it really sunrise? How long have I been here?

Moving is nearly impossible. I start to unwrap myself, move the oilskin away, when I hear something. A motor above the wind.

Then a person outside walking toward the plane.

They’ve returned.

I try to hold as still as I can, warmth rushing over me like a wave. Exhausted by holding myself clenched tight all night, I relax. There’s no reason to do that anymore.

I can let go.

Something rouses me to make sure my face is covered so I can stay hidden. I have to find Codie. I can’t get caught.

Lying beneath the heavy tarp is like being under a weighted blanket. Trying to breathe while not breathing, holding still, takes all my strength.

Whoever it is, they are coming closer. Lifting the tarp just enough to create a line of sight, I see the eerie glow from a flashlight sweeping along the floor. I drop my finger, closing off my vantage point, and try to hold my breath again.

I can hear them breathing. There’s a cough. And then the sound of a pack dropping to the floor.

They step closer, their boots making gritty sounds just inches from where I lie.