Echoes of Darkness (32 page)

I hear a sound, recognizing it as the thing that woke me—I’d heard it in my sleep. A wet, snuffling snort. I wonder for a moment what it might be—then remember that I’m alone here, and there shouldn’t
be
a sound if I’m not making it . . . and I’m
not
making it. I roll gently onto my side, taking my weight on one elbow, turning my attention toward the sound. Toward the cockpit.

Moonlight shines faintly silver on the snow, coming in through the unbroken side of the windshield . . . and there are shadows moving. Shapes in the night, passing back and forth on the other side of the glass, like fish in a tank. I roll further, squirm a little closer, peering at the shapes outside, curious—and then my curiosity becomes fear: not all of the shapes are outside the glass. A growl, low and rumbling, burbles out of the darkened side of the cockpit, where shadows roil strangely, all movement and no detail, like shapes under a blanket.

It’s pure reflex, but I’m scrabbling for some way to beat back the darkness and see what’s right in front of me. The cell phone fumbles out of my pocket, the screen coming to life. The artificial illumination, so meager back in civilization as to be almost laughable, is bright enough in
this
setting to cause me to squint against the glare.

The wolf, however, does
not
squint, crouching as it is, not five feet away, half in and half out of the plane, peeking at me around Bill’s seat back, its eyes golden dinner plates at this distance. Its hindquarters protrude out through the broken windshield, and I can see where the snow I’d piled there to keep out the cold wind has been cleared away. For an instant my fear is drowned out by a flood of anger: just who the hell does it think it is, coming into my plane—my
home
—uninvited like this, tracking in snow and letting in the cold?

Then I focus on the dark muzzle, at the bared teeth splitting it in a savage grin, and fear shoulders its way back to center stage. Christ, from this close those teeth look as long as my fingers, though much,
much
sharper, and . . . and as I watch, some of the darkness around those teeth drips off. It’s just a single drop, but I watch it fall with amazing clarity, a droplet in high-def, tumbling through the air to strike the ceiling which is now our floor with a tiny, soundless splash. Around it I see more darkness on the floor, drips and drabs and spatters, and all but that last drop is beneath the shape of Bill, hanging in his seat.

Blood.

They’re eating the pilot. They found the hole, smelled Bill through the snow or something, and dug their way in. That’s what woke me: the wet sound of tearing fabric, or maybe the wetter sound of tearing flesh. Did they stop there because Bill was easy, hanging right in the entrance so they didn’t
have
to come in any further? Or had they not even noticed me sleeping a half-dozen feet away, so intent had they been on this dangling buffet? And would Bill be enough to feed them all? Part of me considers all the shadows I saw through the windshield, the rest of the pack waiting its turn, and doesn’t think so.

Before the thought is finished I’m struggling with the phone in my hand, rolling clumsily to my knees. From the corner of my eye I register the wolf flinching back at this sudden move. The icons on the phone’s screen look tiny, and the one I’m searching for seems to hide among the rest like some insane
Where’s Waldo
game. The wolf recovers, head lowering slightly, the rumble in its chest rising as it places one foot forward, the first move it’s made toward me. Oh, why the
fuck
do I have so many goddamn applications on this thing? It
has
to be here, I
know
it’s here—and then it is.

My thumb stabs down on the screen.

If the background glow from my screen seemed bright, the flashlight app explodes. Brilliant light, the colorless white of a lightning strike, bursts from the little machine. My eyes and head nearly rupture with pain, and I cry out, falling forward, catching myself with one stiff arm before I crash headlong. The impact with the floor ratchets the torment in my head even higher, but through teary eyes I see the wolf take a step back, then retreat another, head dropping, ears folding back sleek against the skull. Those golden orbs squint nearly shut, and the head droops lower as I kneel up tall, raising the light up by my ear to aim the blinding beam directly into the beast’s eyes, like a cop making a traffic stop.

Despite the situation, I nearly giggle at the thought of a cop pulling over the Big Bad Wolf. The words run through my head,
Do you know why I stopped you?
, but what pours from my mouth are inarticulate sounds: part fear, part anger, but
loud
. Loud enough that it, combined with all the sudden movement, makes my world go swimmy. I fall forward again, still trying to catch myself one-handed so I can keep the light trained on my intruder.

The sudden light, the shout, my falling toward it—it’s too much for the wolf. It backs away with a yip, just as the jolt of landing stiff-armed once again makes everything roll, like the world’s lost its vertical hold. There’s a flurry of movement, the flash of a bushy tail, and it’s gone.

I lie on the floor, breathing hard, stomach kicking from all the fear and activity, though I don’t think I’m going to actually be sick: there’s nothing in there to come out anyway. I lower my forehead to the floor and close my eyes for a moment—and when I raise my head I notice my breathing is normal, my heart no longer thudding in my skull. Even my stomach seems to have settled in an instant, no longer dancing like a tap artist but offering a nice, steady, “feed me” rumble. Did I pass out? I glance around, unable to tell for sure, though I suspect that I did. How long? Are the wolves still about? My phone is in my hand, though the light is out, the screen dark: yet another indication that more time has passed than I was aware of. I touch the screen and the backlight glow fills the plane once more.

I immediately see the uncovered hole in the windshield, suddenly become aware of the cold, much more intense than when I’d woken and discovered the intruder, and know I have to do something about it. But I’m not going out into the snow, into the night, not with the pack out there, probably waiting to get back at Bill again.

Or start on me.

I crawl back and forth, towing suitcases, but they aren’t enough to fill the gap. I drag myself back, trying not to look at Bill, though I’m working right in front of him. I try not to see the stumps where his left arm is missing from the elbow, his right from the shoulder, or his torn face tipped back with its mouth open wide as if he’d screamed in agony while the wolves took their treats. I simply pull myself past him to the passenger seats, jerking the cushions free.

In the event of a water landing
, singsongs a flight attendant in my brain,
your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device.

“How about keeping out the Big Bad Wolf?” I say, stretching my arm through to pull what snow I can reach back to cover the hole, then spread the cushions and cases across the gap in the glass to shore things up. “What do you think about that, Bill? Is it enough to keep out the Big Bad Wolf?” No. No way. But it’s the best I can do for the moment. I slump down, my back against the cases, still trying to avoid eye contact with Bill. I want to go to my supply pile, thoughts of the hungry pack reminding me of my own shrinking, growling, howling belly, but I’m just too tir—

I open my eyes to daylight, and I’m out by the fire. This is where I fell asleep, sitting on the woodpile, and for a moment I suspect my nocturnal visitation was all a dream. Then I look through the open plane door. I can’t see Bill from where I sit, but I can make out the edge of the stain on the floor, splashes of what I know to be blood, and I realize everything was real. The wolves were here, feeding, and they’ll be back. They know they can get into the plane, and they know there’s food in there—some of it so fresh it’s still moving, albeit slowly.

I can’t believe I may have survived a plane crash, and then the deadly cold of Canadian winter nights, only to wind up a walking take-out meal. That thought begets a short fit of giggles, but the laughter hurts my head so much I sober quickly. I know I have to do something to keep the wolves out, I have to, but just the thought of them feeding is enough to send me scuttle-crawling back into the plane looking for breakfast. Applying such a lofty title to my miniscule pile of supplies makes me grin—almost makes me giggle again, despite the pain—until I reach the spot where I left that tiny pile, and find it gone.

My head throbs as my gaze flicks this way and that, but I’m barely aware of it. It
can’t
be gone! It was barely anything, but
anything
is better than
nothing
. Someone is repeating “No, no, no,” in a rusty voice, and it’s me, of
course
it’s me, and I can’t understand how the wolves got past me, slunk right past without my even seeing, to eat my food—and why would they do that when they had their own food hanging right there, in front of their entrance?

“Why would they do that, Bill?” I say, turning to him for a response before remembering his shredded flesh and missing limbs. “Why?” I say again, seriously wanting an answer. Bill says nothing, merely hangs there in his seat, his back to me.

Bill, it seems, is in a mood. Then, in a flash of inspiration, I turn to Maggie.

“You must know something, hon,” I say. “You must.” I look, just to make sure, and I was right: her eyes remain open, even the squinty one, keeping a lopsided watch. She
must
have seen what happened.

Unless it was in the night,
says that fucking annoying, rational voice in my head, the one that remembers French tips and pilots’ names.
In the dark, she may have seen nothing more than shadows, maybe not even that, and—

“Oh, shut up!” My head pounds, hurting more with every movement, every shouted word, but this is
important
, damn it! I force myself calm, and scoot under the seats ’til I’m looking up at my wife, who stares on impassively.

“Sweetheart. You . . . 
must
have seen
some
thing.” I point to the curve in the bulkhead where I left the pile. “It was right there in front of you, and I see you watching all the time. Every time I’m in here you’re looking at me. You
must
have seen something. Please, if you could just tell—”

I’m squirming in my urgency when my hand strikes something small that rolls a few inches before fetching up against the dome light housing. I grab for it blindly, then hold it up in front of my face, peering closely in the shadows beneath the hanging seats.

A small black tube, maybe the size of my thumb, white lettering along the side catching what light from the windows filters past me.

(Maybelline)

It’s empty.

I look up at Maggie in shock. “You
bitch
!
You
took it? You
ate
it? But . . . but what about
me
? I
needed
that. You don’t! You don’t need it at all, so why would you do that? You’re already dead.”

I half-turn, twisting my neck savagely to look toward the cockpit, ignoring the pain in my anger.

“You’re both dead. Why would you—”

I break off as something occurs to me, something so basic I’m surprised I hadn’t thought of it before. I ratchet my head back and forth, trying to take them both in with the same gaze, though it’s impossible from this angle.

“Oh, I
get
it. I
get
it now. You’re both dead, and here I am, still moving around and breathing. And eating. I’m the odd man out, right? You two, you’ve been talking behind my back, haven’t you? Deciding it’s not right? Deciding, maybe, I
shouldn’t
be alive? That it’s not
fair
? Well
fuck
you! Fuck you both! You think you’re going to turn on me behind my back, maybe do something about it? Fuck. You. Both.”

I back toward the open door, wanting to get away from this place, not willing to be in the same room with them, but not wanting to let them out of my sight, either. Maggie watches me go, silent and impassive. I meet her gaze, my eyes flat and stinging despite the cold air; hers wonky, bloody, and expressionless.