S. Davis - 900 Miles

Focusing on its head, and trying to make sure the blow would count, I didn’t notice the person to my left until he came in and drove a foot through the side of the rotten half-corpse, sending it rolling over the edge of the ravine. I watched as the tie flapped in the wind like a streamer while it fell into the darkness.

Jumping back at the suddenness of the action, I looked up to see Kyle holding a welcoming hand in my direction.

“John. Let’s get you away from that ledge,” he said as he stepped forward.

Even in the darkness, I could see the look of concern in his face as he edged toward me. He knew I was done.

Falling to the ground as I grabbed Kyle’s hand, he broke my descent as much as he could, and twisted my body around to where I was perched upright. Sitting there in what I can only explain as shock, I watched in awe as Kyle stood back up and waved toward Mr. Ammo, who was only a few feet back.

For the briefest of moments, the clouds parted, and the moon lit up the hilltop. Twisted metal that looked like someone had wadded up a two-hundred-foot soda can and tossed it into the forest lay before me. Behind it was a field of broken and fallen trees splintering up from the ground.

I eventually recognized the long cabin of a commercial airliner. Its wing was reaching up into the heavens above us, practically begging for God’s help. It would find no such solace, much like the passengers of this forsaken flight.

Realizing the mass of Zs were all strapped to many of the two-by-two airplane seats littering the ground, I looked out at their weathered bodies. They had likely been trapped in those chairs since the shit hit the fan seven months ago.

In the old days, I would have cringed at the thought of having to sit next to the fat sweaty guy on a plane for two hours. I gritted my teeth at the thought that it could have been worse.

Lifting their weapons, Kyle and Mr. Ammo stepped toward the group of buckled-in passengers and methodically drove their given weapon down through their skulls. Making quick work of the creatures, they continued canvassing their way around the wreckage to finish off any stragglers.

Finding some much-needed strength after sitting still for a few minutes, I finally looked over my shoulder to see Jarvis perched up against a metal box that lay sideways. Pulling myself over to him, I noticed that he was out cold. His lungs moved up and down under his chest plates, and I told myself that was good enough for now.

Propping my body up against the same tilted-over metal box, I came down against it hard. My first concern was that I would wake Jarvis, but he stayed dead asleep. However, my weight shifted whatever was in the box, and I heard something clinking around inside.

Looking up toward Kyle and Mr. Ammo, I saw their silhouettes on the other side of the plane, pulling luggage out of some sort of compartment and exploring the inside of the cabin. Later, they would tell me that the radio in the plane was useless. The battery was dead, and the cockpit was all but crushed into a thick set of trees, which had ultimately stopped the plane from falling over the edge of the ravine.

Sitting against the metal box, I decided I would try to make myself useful by doing a bit of digging around on my own. Pushing up to my knees, I looked over the edges of the box and found a small latch. Digging my nails into it, trying to break it free, I finally snapped the rusty piece of metal loose, causing a small door to slide open and hit the ground with a thud.

With a smile, I reached down and lifted up a handful of peanut packets and an assortment of alcohol-filled mini-bottles.

Creating a semi-circle of airplane seats facing toward the ravine, overlooking the dancing fire below, the four of us sat in silence chowing down on a feast of peanuts, crushed crackers, and a bottle of olives that we’d been able to salvage.

We were thrilled to have it.

The seats, all once a prestigious red, now were more brownish black from sitting outside in the elements for so long. Embroidered on the back of each chair was a logo that read Imperial Air in a bold, fancy cursive. Just below the logo was a slogan that read “Flight Fit For A King.” I’m not quite sure what the magnificently terrible smell radiating from them was, but it didn’t matter to me too much. I was just content to be sitting.

Cracking open the first mini-bottle, Kyle poured the clear liquid into a small plastic cup that looked like an imitation goblet from medieval times. Across the bottom, it read, “Million Mile Member Club.”

I cringed thinking that corporations would give away such horrible shit before the world came to an end… and we’d all felt like we needed to have it.

As a group, we’d agreed on a few things. First, Kyle talked us into having a small campfire in the center of our half-circle. We figured any creatures in the area would be drawn to the forest fire below, and it was getting pretty chilly up on the mountainside. I for one had no interest in being anywhere near a fire, but he nearly insisted that we needed it. He got it up and running pretty quickly with a set of matches he’d found in some carry-on luggage.

So much for the hours of airport I’d wasted over my lifetime.

Second, there was the issue of Mr. Ammo. After all, we were all trying to kill each other not too long ago. Three on one gave us the odds, and he knew he wasn’t going to get too far without us. In the end, we decided that we’d helped each other get this far, and we weren’t going to settle our differences tonight. We’d have to decide what to do next in the morning. Of course, that didn’t stop Kyle from threatening to toss “his ass,” as he put it, over the edge if Mr. Ammo made a single move he didn’t like.

Luckily, the kid got message loud and clear.

With the exception of the natural defenses that the hill provided and the cracked-open cabin of the plane, we were all but exposed. However, it was too dark to head anywhere, and at least here we had a few supplies to rummage through.

For the time being, no matter how much my mind told me we needed to keep moving, we had decided to stay put. I’m glad we did, because I’m not sure I would have ever heard the story that Jarvis told us that night if we hadn’t.

Famous within the ranks of the nation’s elite… and he was drunk on the power.

Looking over toward Jarvis, I could see the firelight flickering off his face while he sat and chowed down on a bag of peanuts. He was in a fresh set of blue jeans and a black hoodie. I’d never seen him so informally dressed. We’d all found a new set of clothing amongst the wreckage. Trading in my melted body armor, I settled for a set of brown cargo pants, a black t-shirt, and a sweatshirt that was a tad too tight for my liking.

I noticed that Kyle kept looking over toward Jarvis’s leg wound, bleeding through the bandages, soiling his newfound set of clothing.

Taking a sturdy piece of metal, roughly two feet long, that he’d salvaged from the plane, Kyle placed one end in the fire and looked up to me with a slightly grim face before taking a swig from his goblet.

Pulling on two strings, Jarvis opened the top of the backpack and began rummaging through the bottles and small glass vials. With the help of the light from the fire, I watched as his hand emerged with a few pills that he downed with a swig from a mini-bottle.

Moving my eyes across the campfire, they landed on a bright white pair of Nike running shoes with a florescent green stripe nearly glowing in the darkness.

“Nice kicks,” I said to Mr. Ammo.

Smiling nervously, he looked down, twisted the shoes in the dirt, and said, “I always wanted a pair of these, but they were always too expensive. Don’t think anybody on that plane will miss them.” Looking out at the ravine for a second, as if not knowing what to say, he continued. “They’re called the Nike Pegasus. They say you can fly with them.”