Under the Northern Lights(5)
Wiping my bloody, tear-stained cheeks, I prepared myself for an inevitable burst of pain. “You can do this, Mal. Count of three, and it will be over. Nothing to it.” Letting out a long, slow breath, I started counting. “One . . . two . . . three.”
Right on the count of three, before I could freeze up and change my mind, I pushed against the wrecked dash, tossing all my body weight to the right, away from the steering column, away from the branch spearing my leg. As momentum carried me all the way outside, through the smashed-open hole that used to be a door, a tidal wave of agony ripped through my body. I’d never felt anything so paralyzing, and I screamed at the top of my lungs before finally, thankfully passing out. The last thing I heard before darkness covered me again was the ominous howl of a wolf.
When I came to, I wasn’t sure where I was. Blissfully delirious, I thought I was back at home in the mountains of Idaho, making snow angels with my sister. It was too cold, though, and my entire body was shaking with the frigidness of the earth below me. Then I remembered the plane, the crash, the mangled heap of metal, the branch piercing my thigh. The tears resurfaced as the pain and desolation consumed me. God, why couldn’t my delusion be real? I’d give anything to be moments away from a hot fire and warm cocoa. Free from pain, free from misery, free from despair.
But I wasn’t home, I wasn’t free, and the longer I remained lying on the ground, freezing and bleeding, the closer to death I crept. And I couldn’t give in to death. Life was a gift, one I cherished, and I was going to fight to keep it. Through sheer strength of will, I managed to sit up on my elbows. My thick insulated pants were torn and stained, ruined, and a pool of dark blood was collecting on the snow. The sight made me nauseated again, but I needed to staunch the flow before I lost too much blood; I already felt dizzy, like I might pass out at any moment, and if I did, I might not wake up again. Firmly placing my palm against the wound, I pressed down. Pain flared under my touch, threatening to consume me with agony.
Just that little bit hurt so much, and it was only a temporary fix. I needed to do something more, make something tighter to truly keep the blood loss at bay. That was just one of the many things I had to do. Exhaustion weakened my spirit as my to-do list overwhelmed me. Everything on the list felt like it was a top priority. Heat was essential. My fingers were already stiff, hard to move. If I didn’t get them warmed up soon, I might lose them. Fear made me reach into my pocket with my free hand. There were two survival items I always kept on me—a Swiss Army knife and a lighter. Feeling them still there lessened my panic. Thank God, I could get warm. I could smell gas, though. I would have to get away from the plane before I started a fire. I would also need wood—dry wood. Shit. Where was I going to find wood dry enough to burn in this?
Worry made me look around. The sleet had turned to snow, and a thin layer was already covering me and the plane—freezing us both. Finding my survival pack was a must—hopefully it was nearby and not hundreds of feet away, where the plane had first started ripping apart. My pack had everything I’d need to stay alive . . . for a few weeks at least. The fear started returning, and I tried not to think that far in the future. I had to keep focused on what I could do now. Now was all that mattered. And if I could find my pack, then I stood a much better chance of surviving the night.
That was when I remembered hearing the wolf. And where there was one, there were always more. I had to get my gun from the side of the plane so I could defend myself if they decided to come closer; the strangeness of the wreckage should hold them off for a while, but the smell of blood would eventually draw them in. Grizzlies too. They could smell blood for miles, and at this time of year, they were desperate for food. Oh God . . . I couldn’t stomach the thought of being eaten by the animals I loved. I prayed my gun was still attached to the plane.
Panic began to knock on my soul, darkening and frightening the frail hope inside me. I tried to push it back, tried to convince myself that I could do everything I needed to do—that all of this was going to be fine—but it was so hard. I wanted to crawl into a ball and sob, cry, curse the world. But none of that would help me live, and I wanted to live more than anything. I loved my life.
So I needed to fix my leg. That was step one.
Breathing made my chest burn, and I knew it wasn’t just the chill in the Arctic air that was hurting me. I’d probably cracked a rib—several of them, by the feel of things. There might be internal bleeding too. My vomit had been clear, and I took that as a good sign, but still, I wouldn’t know until it was too late. As much as that thought sent icy terror through me, I knew it was out of my hands. All I could do was worry about taking care of the outside of me. Finding my cross necklace intact and still around my neck, I placed my chilled fingers upon it and strengthened myself for the task at hand. You can do this, Mal. You have to.
Looking around, I tried to find something nearby that I could use to bind my leg. The wing covers were dangling from the hole in the plane, billowing in the breeze. I could cut the straps off and use them to tightly wrap my thigh—that should keep the blood loss at a minimum. I hoped.
Having a plan in mind made me feel a little better, mentally at least. My body was in an endless cycle of pain. I made myself sit all the way up. It was agony to move, but what concerned me even more was how much I was shaking. Was I cold? Or in shock? Or had I lost too much blood? Cold I could fix. The other two . . . there wasn’t much I could do about either of them, and that fear shook the mild hope-fueled peace I’d found, leaving me torn between terror and confidence. I had to keep going. Stopping wasn’t an option.