D Carpenter - Infertile Grounds

If the plane had crashed thirty minutes earlier, Chris Foster would be dead. It would have plowed him into the underbrush along the edge of the river he loved, ending his life with an incredible, almost humorous bit of bad luck.

He was in the middle of a yearly, two-week sabbatical at his secluded cabin in Northern Maine – no computers, no employees, no wife, just his fishing rod and the last great wilderness on the east coast.

Everything was perfect until a small yellow plane careened around the lazy bend down-river and clipped the top of a massive pine tree protruding from the eroded bank at a forty-five-degree angle. The plane dove violently, missing the water by inches. The pilot regained control briefly until a three-foot piece of tree-damaged wing snapped off, sending the plane into an arcing barrel roll. It passed twenty feet over Chris’ head and slammed into the opposite river bank with a tremendous crash that silenced the engine’s sputtering whine.

The tranquility of the morning morphed into a post-near-death, eerie calm as Chris stared across the flowing water at the shattered wreckage. He had been standing in that exact spot just minutes ago. The combination of slippery river rocks, the current and his waders made it difficult to move quickly and he struggled up to the bend where the water was fast but shallow and he could easily cross over.

The forest was unnaturally quiet – no birds sang, even the gurgling of the river sounded muted – as if nature paid homage to the recently deceased pilot.

As he approached the twisted, crumpled fuselage Chris called out, “Hello.” No response. He expected none.

He ran his hand along the cool metal, probing small round holes punched through the yellow paint at irregular intervals. Maybe it was the fuel-fouled air, or a response to the intense adrenaline rush, or, more likely, it was knowing that he was about to come face to face with death – it was inches away, waiting to show him its glorious handiwork – but an overwhelming sense of panic gripped him. He leaned over, his lungs constricted, his heart pounding a frantic, out of control beat. The forest started a slow spin. He was going to pass out and he dropped to his knees. Bent at the waist, head down – as if he were on a mossy prayer mat worshipping Allah – an uncontrollable quaking coursed through his body as he struggled to regain control. He had never experienced anything like this before and had always thought panic attacks were simply psycho-babble-based excuses for people who couldn’t deal with life but now he understood just what it meant – how overwhelming it could be.

It took several minutes for the attack to pass and he slowly rose on unsteady feet. He peered into the cabin through the shattered pilot-side window and saw exactly what he had expected. The pilot’s bloody body was unnaturally wrapped around the dislocated engine block. He was motionless. Chris stared at the horrific scene for a long moment, examining the catastrophic damage to the plane and to its pilot’s mangled body. As he was about to turn away, the man eyes blinked open. His lips started to tremble.

“Oh my God,” Chris said as he wrenched the door open. “You’re alive?”

The pilot tried to speak, causing a rivulet of blood to dribble from the corner of his mouth. As Chris climbed into the crumpled compartment, the pilot slowly focused his gaze on him. Chris gave the man a quick once over – blood saturated his long sleeve denim shirt, and his hips were twisted around almost one-hundred-eighty degrees. He wouldn’t be alive for long.

“Jesus Christ.” Chris said, shocked at the level of trauma this man had somehow survived.

The dying man slowly opened and closed his mouth, struggling to get a breath before whispering, “Listen. I don’t…” A spasm racked his body, spurting fresh blood from his mouth but his gaze stayed focused. “…have much time.”

“Let me help you,” Chris pleaded, not able to just sit back and watch him die. He started unbuttoning the blood-soaked shirt. Maybe he could somehow stop the bleeding.

“Don’t bother,” the pilot said in a gurgling sigh. “I’m David Rose.”

Chris stopped fussing with his shirt and stared into his disturbingly calm, brown eyes.

“They’re coming after me,” David said softly.

“Who? Who’s coming after you?”

David’s ruggedly handsome face reddened. A vein bulged on his forehead. The tendons in his neck looked like wires ready to snap under his skin as he struggled to breathe. He finally managed to gulp some air before continuing. “They knew. You need to get out of here.”

“Who knew what? What’s going on?” Chris wondered if David was experiencing some sort of pre-death hallucination. He was obviously confused and undoubtedly concussed after what he had just gone through. Perhaps that, coupled with shock from the traumatic injuries was making him delusional.

“Sar–,” David grimaced as his eyes closed. “Sarah Burns.”

“Who is Sarah Burns? Why is she after you? Listen, just sit tight, let me go get some help.” Chris wondered how he was going to get help from this remote spot. It was impossible but he didn’t know what to say.

“No time,” David gasped pointing to his bloody chest. “She… shot… me.”

Chris tore open his shirt and stared at two swollen, oozing wounds – one just below his collarbone and the other several inches below his left nipple – undoubtedly bullet holes. David’s eyes opened again and he focused them intensely on Chris. “Do you have kids?”

“Huh?”

“Stop her….,” David said as his hand latched onto Chris’ wet, wader-covered calf and squeezed hard in a convulsive, pain-induced reaction. “Stop it.”

“It?”

“It can’t get out,” David said in soft, hitching breaths.

“What can’t get out? What are you talking about?”

David gasped, “The virus.” Tears welled up in his eyes, his lips quivered, struggling to produce words. “Soon, soon, very soon.”

“What virus? Who shot you? You’re not making any sense,” Chris said as he tried to process what he was hearing. This guy was borderline incoherent but who could have shot him? Who was this Sarah? None of this made sense and Chris was starting to panic again. He needed to do something, anything. David’s delusional rambling was unnerving.

“I loved her,” the pilot stuttered. “I believed but Engamy was scary. Engamy…”

“Engamy? What the fuck is Engamy?”

Another intense shudder tore through his body, his head drooped as he fell silent. His hand slid from Chris’ leg. Chris thought he had died right then and there but then David’s head snapped upright and he said, “She finally did it. She’s coming… you have to go, you have to stop her. Go!” His eyes pleaded with Chris.

Now it was Chris’ turn to shudder. The wrecked plane, his own near death, and the blood-covered dying man paled compared to David’s bizarre words. Was he in the throws of some sort of pre-death delirium or was he telling the truth? None of this made any sense and the panic within Chris was starting to take control.

Their gazes locked. Seeing Chris’ confusion, David nodded softly and said, “Stop the virus.”

“What can I—”

David’s eyes suddenly grew wide with fear. Chris cocked his head and listened to the faint, unmistakable hum of a small engine plane in the distance.