James Smith - Hybrid

“Quick, bring her around!” he shouted and adjusted the dial. He mashed one headphone against his ear as the plane banked. There was now a steady beep with the meter’s red light flashing. He stretched to look out the window.

As if sunning itself, a gigantic black wolf lay on a boulder in the middle of a swift stream. The animal appeared undaunted by the roar of the plane.

“What you got?” Amy asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s a wolf, but look at the size of that thing.”

She did a clockwise turn and maneuvered back along the river. When the plane approached, the wolf dived in and swam toward shore. After scurrying up the bank, it shook and sprayed water from its dark fur and then darted into a meadow.

“Hold on!” Amy cried out as she pulled back on the stick and shot the nose skyward.

Dieter jerked up.

A towering tree rocketed toward them. He grabbed the sides of his seat with both hands to brace himself and jammed his feet into the floor, mashing the antenna.

The plane grazed the top of a lodge pole pine, sounding as if the underbelly was crushed like a tin can. The single engine sputtered and the entire cabin shook.

TheCessna had stalled in midair. “Now what?” Dieter asked, trying to hide his panic.

Amy brought the nose down and attempted to restart the engine. An unsettling silence filled the cockpit. “We need to find a place to land,” she said in a manner much too relaxed for Dieter.

“Please get the engine running, Amy.”

“The prop snagged on the tree.”

“Can you get it started?”

“Must’ve damaged the engine.”

“What in the hell does that mean?”

“Keep calm.”

Keep calm? The plane rapidly descended toward a blanket of pine trees below.

“There it is!” she cried out. “Salvation asphalt.”

He spotted the highway running north of Colter. The plane banked toward it as the road disappeared over a hill. They were approaching the ground too damned fast.

“We’ll keep following the highway,” she blurted. “It’s our best hope. This could be rough.”

Isn’t that frigging normal for crash landings?

On the other side of the hill the road straightened out. A motorcycle was speeding south, directly at them.

“Here we go,” she shouted.

“The motorcycle…”

“He’ll figure it out. Brace yourself.”

The plane glided just above the pavement, then the landing gear slammed into the highway and the brakes squealed. The plane skidded and spun a quarter turn into the heavy brush by the roadside.

“Jump out!” Amy shouted.

He unbuckled and bolted out the door before she finished her order. The startled motorcyclist in jeans and a yellow tank-top jogged toward them. Amy ran around to Dieter’s side, holding her head in disbelief as they walked into the field away from the aircraft. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It was idiotic of me.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said and hoped that she couldn’t pick up the tremor in his voice. “You got us out of it. We’re safe.”

She flung her arms around his neck while he took hold of the small of her back with both hands and pulled her to him. His cheek brushed hers and he stole a deep breath of her fragrance before she let go.

“Next time,” he whispered, “how about if I do the searching and you do the flying?”

“Deal.”

Michael Harmon felt out of place after school in the basement of Colter Baptist Church—his first troop meeting as a Boy Scout and he still didn’t have a uniform. His disappointment was overshadowed by thoughts of his dad letting him go to the Yellowstone Camporee. That was a big win and big wins were hard to come by.

Megan and another girl her age who wore a frilly skirt instead of shorts, were kept busy by the Scoutmaster’s wife during the meeting. Scoutmaster Farmington introduced Michael to the boys of Colter Troop 173 as they sat on folding chairs in a circle. Michael felt the stares like he was naked or something. They were curious stares except for the scoutmaster’s son, one of the older guys who was an overweight smartass. Fat Kenny snickered whenever Michael was around him as if the new kid was too young and dumb to be in the Scouts.

The scoutmaster announced that the first order of business was to get prepared for the Labor Day Camporee coming up that weekend. He said he would be leading an overnight camping trip in the wilderness and the scoutmaster from another troop would lead an all-day canoeing trip. In either case, the boys could sign up for only one event and, for Michael, it was an easy choice.

After the talk, everyone followed the scoutmaster down the wooded path behind the church to the Tranquility Garden picnic area reserved for family get-togethers. Those who were taller and older made a point of moving faster than he could, sometimes brushing an arm or elbow against him whenever they passed. Michael fell behind. When Fat Kenny got close enough, he bumped hard against his shoulder. “Hey, kid,” he teased. “The Cubs are back at the church playing with dolls. You’re in the wrong Troop.”

Michael tried to ignore him, but it wasn’t easy. He wanted to bash in his face with a pine branch. When they arrived at the shelter, Mr. Farmington met each boy with a big grin and a pat on the back. Michael was last.

“I’m afraid,” the scoutmaster whispered, “that you’ll have to walk a little faster if you intend to go hiking this weekend. There’s some pretty steep ground in the Park. I think you’d do better on the canoe trip.”

Michael took a seat at a back table at the end of the bench beside a redheaded boy no taller than he was and who looked harmless. Mr. Farmington explained how they needed three hikes to earn their Leave No Trace Awareness patch. He jabbered about the importance of nature and the environment and about respecting the rights of others to use the outdoors. Even those who weren’t born yet. Then he switched to the overnight hike that would begin on Sunday. He spoke about carrying backpacks, setting up tents, wearing the right clothes, and weather forecasts. He reminded them that the hike was only for the boys who had a signed permission slip from a parent.

Michael held up his hand. “I didn’t get a slip.”

“I gave one to your nanny, Michael. Please ask her about it. Now, how many of you have the list of essential items for the hike?”

As soon as Mr. Farmington said “nanny” the boys around him giggled and his face felt hot. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he should have stayed with the Cub Scouts another year. On the walk back to the church, Fat Kenny sneaked up on him from behind. “Hey, Mikey! Going home to your nanny?” He spoke loud enough so the boys around him could hear his laugh. “Does your nanny give you milk from her titty?”

More laughter. Michael stopped and stared back at him, curling his hands into fists. Fat Kenny moved in closer and lowered his head, inches from his face. “What’s a matter? Are you gonna cry?”

Michael held his breath and walked away. Fat Kenny followed, whispering behind him. “Little boys who’ve got a nanny should stay out of the woods. It’s a scary place. You never know what could—”

Michael collapsed to the ground on his knees. As close as a shadow, Fat Kenny stumbled over him and slammed into the dirt.

“Dammit!” cried the startled boy. He lay on his back while holding his knee in the air with both hands and a look of mortal pain.

With the look of a sergeant, Mr. Farmington marched to the scene and glared down at his son. “Was that foul language coming from your mouth, Kenny?”

“I tripped,” he mumbled back. All of the boys stared at Michael.