Cristelle Comby - Alone Together

It hurt to stand back up, and a wave of nausea hit me when I got back to my feet. I waited it out before taking a couple of shaky steps towards the mess of metal and plastic that used to be my flight to Sweden. Where was the other end of it? Or the other passengers? Or the rescue?

I looked about, working my way around the broken tail, but finding nothing except sparse trees and more debris. It didn’t make any sense. Someone else had to be here. I didn’t remember making it out of the plane and lying down. Or getting the blankets.

“ Hullo ?” I called out, loud as I could. It ended in a cough, making me realise my throat was sore and parched. I swallowed and tried again with, “Is anybody here?” More coughing. This time, it continued until it became full-on hacking.

After clearing my throat, I allowed it to settle. That’s when I realised that I had no idea where ‘here’ was. It looked like a forest, but not a very dense one. It was dreary and misty, like a location for a 70s slasher horror film. The trees weren’t that thick or high, growing further apart than what I was used to seeing in central Europe. If memory served, that only happened when trees were planted in high altitude or very far north on the map. Since oxygen levels seemed normal, Option Two had to be what explained the scrawny vegetation.

I finished my circle of the tail but found no clue that would help me figure out my location. A glance down at my wristwatch left me with yet more questions. According to the timepiece, it was close to two in the morning. Given how much I’d paid for it, I was inclined to trust it. But then, luxury didn’t always mean durability, did it? On top of that, my eyes were telling me a different story. The sun was out, bathing the surrounding forest in what amounted to early morning or late-evening light.

The midnight sun, as it was called, only happened around the summer solstice and in places north of the Arctic Circle or south of the Antarctic Circle. And Stockholm, our plane’s initial destination, was hundreds of miles south of the Arctic Circle. Another proof, as if I needed one, that we’d crashed way off-course. What of Kiruna , I wondered. Was it that far north ?

Looking down at my wristwatch brought more bad news. The plane had crashed about ten hours ago. Ten whole, long hours was more than enough time for several rescue teams to have been mobilised. So where were they?

The Swedes—if this was Sweden—weren’t known to be slackers. They ought to have been able to track the plane’s signal by now using the radar information, or to use satellites to find the plane’s black boxes—which, I realised, could be hundreds of miles away, if they were in the front half of the plane. With its tall white and blue tail, what was left of the plane stood out like a sore thumb amongst the green foliage here, so if there were people nearby, they should have seen it. Even on the grainiest of satellite footage, only a blind idiot could miss it, or the large gauge the thing had made into the soft earth.

A feeble moan came from my left, and I froze. Turning on my side, I saw the soggy heap of blankets I’d woken up under move and rustle, like there was someone—or something—there. I held my breath as it squirmed out from under the blue and yellow mass of linen.

Some of my questions were answered when a mop of curly brown hair emerged from beneath the rough material. It was followed up by the round sleepy face of a young woman. After giving thanks to the universe that she wasn’t some wild creature who’d come to see what was happening, I gave her a closer look.

She had white but tanned skin, looking to be twenty-something. Half of her hair was matted to the side of her face. The rest of it was a mess of wild curls that only the sturdiest of combs could tame. Though she was blinking her blue eyes open, she hadn’t spotted me yet. When her gaze finally settled on me, she seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see her.

She recovered quickly, bringing up a hand to vainly try to rearrange her hair while sitting up. All her fingers did was get trapped in the tangled mess, so she just scratched at her scalp instead.

She made motions like she was going to get to her feet. Then she stopped, seeming to think it wasn’t such a good idea. So instead, she pushed the blankets off her. When the flesh of her bare arms met the cold morning air, she shivered.

It was only when the last blanket came off that I finally understood her reluctance about standing up. She’d used what looked like a sweater to bandage up her left leg. Despite the makeshift tourniquet, there were trails of caked blood going all the way to her ankle.

I moved closer to her. I had a million questions, but the first one that made it past my lips was the immediate one. “ Oi , do you know how I got off the plane?”

She looked at me like I’d grown an extra head. I figured it might have been the Scottish accent. When our brogue gets thick enough, only we Scots can understand it. So I tried to dial it down with my next question. “Was that you who pulled me out of there?”

No answer. But it must have been her. I sure as hell didn’t see any other volunteers. Just my luck that I’d get someone who didn’t understand English. I took a deep breath before pointing at the broken tail. “Plane.” Then I pointed at myself. “Me.” Lastly, my finger landed on the crumpled pile of soggy blue and yellow blankets. “There.”

That little pantomime got me a positive nod. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. This woman was little more than a teenager. And she didn’t seem too bright at that. I mean, who in Europe doesn’t know a little English these days?

I reached for my handkerchief. While I rummaged through my pocket, I checked to make sure my wallet was still there. Sure, this girl had been able to afford a plane ticket, but everything about her, her faded jeans, worn-out trainers and flowery T-shirt, screamed middle-class. Nothing they won’t do to nab an extra euro.

I was careful to hide my relief when my fingertips came in contact with my leather-bound wallet. I had half a mind to pull it out—along with the handkerchief, of course—just to check its content. But if she was a thief and knew I was onto her, it was anyone’s guess how she’d react. Since I had nothing to defend myself with and there wasn’t anyone else around to help, I decided to err on the side of caution.

“Where’s everyone?” I asked. “Where’s the rescue?”

I got that same fish-out-of-the-water expression out of her. I wondered what I’d done to deserve being stuck with such a simpleton. “Rescue,” I enunciated slowly, then swiping my hand about in a circle, “Where?”

She shook her head before looking around herself. It was as if she was searching for something, which she seemed to find a minute later. Without standing up, she scrambled closer to the wreckage until she reached a broken tree branch. What did she intend to do with that ? I thought, feeling a pang of fear that I hated admitting to.

I got up and took a step back as her fingers curled around it before she brought it closer to her torso. She paused and glanced up at me. Surprise stretched the tired lines of her face for just an instant before going away.

She turned her head back to the branch, placed it in a vertical position and then used it to haul herself up onto her feet. She did that with a groan of pain, panting hard by the time she was upright again. She tested her damaged leg by applying pressure on her foot for a few seconds. A pain-filled cry later, she gave up and returned to leaning on the makeshift cane.

From under that curtain of mad curls, she glanced at me again. Seemingly satisfied that I hadn’t moved, she started walking, one careful step at a time. I had to admit that she used the cane well through her limping, never once giving in to the weakness in her bad leg.