Top Flight to a Dead Crash Landing

Wipers swish and sway, splashing jets of rainwater from the windshield. The pilot grips the wheel with both hands, maneuvering the cargo plane through the jagged electric fingers of lightning bolts.

“Damn electrical storm. I knew we should’ve went north-northeast at first glance of the thunder heads.”

All throughout the plane, bulbs dim and glow as if life is being drained of them. The propellers whir with great effort.

He calls behind him, “Marco! I need assistance!”

The pilot switches it to autopilot hoping God would be kind and protect them, until at least he gets back to the cockpit.

“Marco!”

Marco stands before an opened crate, his teeth in the flesh of a piece of kiwi, banana peels and other eaten fruits surrounding. “Want some, Ziggy?”

“Like Hell I do. You seal up that crate right now! You know they weigh this pound-for-pound. Any less is deducted from my pay!”

“We’ve been over the Gulf for five hours. A man’s gotta eat.”

“Get your ass to the cockpit and help me get through this storm.”

Switching off autopilot, Ziggy curses beneath his breath. Marco takes the other wheel.

The storm has intensified during that twelve-second stint. Light flickers bright in a constant strobe that nearly blinds them.

Marco says, “You know where we are, don’t you?”

“Three hours away from our destination, due South-wes...” Ziggy stops, frozen at the sight of the needle to the compass spinning in fast rotation. Five flat pounds of the palm against the glass does little good.

Grabbing the radio, Ziggy switches it on. A loud screech emits, deafening both of pilots. They cup their hands over their ear.

A loud explosion rips through the plane. Marco looks starboard. “Ziggy! The propeller is on fire! We’re done for!”

The plane nosedives through the clouds below them.

Ziggy wasn’t going to go down without a fight. He grips the wheel and gives everything he’s got, but the plane begins to spiral.

The plane makes a huge plunge into the ocean.

Minutes go by before Ziggy surfaces, tugging Marco up with him.

Saltwater burning their throats, they gasp for air, struggling against the incoming water that tries to submerge them great abyss below. Ziggy pushes through the rolling surf and comes upon a beach.

Foamy waters from an incoming tide move both pilots gracefully upon the beach.

A huge jungle stands before them, cloaking a mountainous peak beyond. Ziggy is the first to ask, “Where do you think we crash-landed?”

Marco, astonished, proclaims, “I haven’t the clue...”

Ziggy notices something already odd about the beach, not a single bird is in sight. This time of the year, there would be seagulls by the droves hunting for fish.

Marco suggests, “We might as well explore. See if there is a radio tower, or at least a village.”

Ziggy takes a moment to go over everything in his head, “You may be right. I feel the danger has passed for now.”

A way up the beach, Marco points “Look, there!” and runs ahead.

“Wait!”

Marco races to a pile of crates, shattered against boulders, and rummages through them. “You think they’re ours?”

The answer comes in grim fashion. “I don’t think so.” Ziggy notices a skeletal arm creep from beneath one of the crates. “Poor bastard...”

Marco pulls up something, whistling: an AK-47. “You think this stuff was smuggled, or part of a military run?”

“How should I know?” Frustrated, Ziggy looks back to the sun cresting above the edge of the earth. “Nightfall nears.” He approaches the edge of the jungle, twenty steps away; fingers a mix of sand and wild growth; looks up. “Explain to me, Marco, why the earth is dry and not a cloud in the sky. We were just recently amidst a terrible storm.”

Marco pockets a magazine and grabs the gun before standing up. “It probably skimmed by. Used to happen all the time where I lived. Next door neighbor would get slammed with torrential rain, not a drop on my property. Vice versa. Shit happens then you die.”

“Thanks for the poignant philosophy on mortality. Now, let’s get back to reality. The cargo we found suggests that there was a disaster of some sort, possibly similar to what we experienced. It may have been a shipwreck, but seeing as there is no ship... Then again this could have been washed ashore. It would have clogged the arsenal though, making the guns water-damaged.”

Bullets fly, causing Ziggy to jump back. Marco admires the power of the weapon. “Gun works.”

“Was that necessary?”

Marco jumps in response to shuffling amongst the shrubbery. Elephant ears bounce and bob about. He lifts up the gun; Ziggy warns, “Let’s not get gun crazy.”

Ziggy notices a patch of strawberries, grabs a handful, pockets it. Both men make their way through the jungle.

To Ziggy, the jungle feels deceptive. On the surface there is this unspent tranquility about it, but in the deepest fringes seems to hide foreboding realms with many dark secrets.

Ziggy’s thoughts wisp away with Marco asking, “Will you look at that?” Marco crouches down on one knee, pushing away weeds to reveal a broken column, lain sideways, upon the earth. Crafted completely of onyx stone, the column contains pictographs of symbols and images that have appeared to have belonged to an older, tribal religion. Marco extends his hand toward the object.

A powerful dark force impels Ziggy to say, “Don’t touch!”

Marco pulls his arm back, and looks at Ziggy, “Everything alright?”

“Something feels amiss. It’s nearing dusk.” He regards the darkness beyond the green, “There’s no telling what lurks in the shadows of night.”

They press on.

The sun fades.

The stars map the sky.


Up ahead, an eerie green glow shines through the breaks in the trees.

“Look!” Marco says, “There’s hope!” Marco shoves through the wild growth that consume him.

“No, wait!” Ziggy runs after him

Ziggy stops dead halt.

“Will you look at that?” Marco asks in full astonishment.

Standing before them is a plane, ivy growing around it like an outer layer of skin.

Ziggy gasps, “Do you know what that is?” Marco shrugs. “It’s The Lockheed Model 10 Electra, but it can’t be...” He runs ahead.

Marco, now becoming now the cautious one, “Wait.”

Ziggy steps through the portal.

Odd trinkets hang about the cabin, weird woodwork forming symbols of archaic design. The interior looks as if it had been converted into a shrine.

Ziggy steps deeper into the cabin, and into the cockpit. There, his heart drops. A barrage of extinguished candles about the cockpit, with offerings from flowers to trinkets lay scattered before a single picture mounted on the flight deck. The beaming face is none other than Amelia Earhart. “It can’t be...”

“Ziggy!” Marco’s voice shouts from outside, followed by the clack-clack-clack of the AK-47 ripping bullets through the jungle.

Ziggy races to Marco, “What is it?”

“E-eyes... Through the thick... glowing...”

Ziggy scans the area. Nothing.

“You must be imaging things.”

Marco is pushed forward by a bulk form from behind. His gun flies ahead in the air. By instinct alone, Ziggy runs to collect the weapon and turns. A reptilian beast of about three-feet in height, spikes cropping up from the spine, possessing a similar image to a raptor, claws at Marco. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ziggy pumps the creature full of lead. He races to Marco, and helps him up. They race ahead as more creatures come in hot pursuit after them.

As they make way through the jungle, Ziggy looks back. Six beasts are on their tail. There’s a fork in the trail. “We gotta split. Maybe we can lose them.” Marco nods, darting left, Ziggy taking right.

Pushing on, Ziggy looks back to see four of the creatures following Marco ravenously, leaving two in pursuit of Ziggy. Frantic, Ziggy reaches into his pocket, and throws out the clump of strawberries.

About fifty yards down, Ziggy stops. Looks back. The creatures seem to be fighting each other over something. Taking the moment of opportunity to his advantage, Ziggy mows down the two creatures. Mushed pulps of strawberry stuck between their teeth, a jam of a mess of strawberries about them. “Fruit... They’re attracted to fruit...” A startling recollection surfaces of Marco shoving his face full of fruit back on the plain. “Marco!”

Ziggy runs back, this time taking the left path. Around the bend, he stops. Marco’s lifeless body lay splayed about, mutilated like a busted pinata, innards thrown about the grass. Not a creature in sight. They had their fill.

Dropping the gun, Ziggy falls to his feet, crying.

Footfalls from behind cause him to turn. One of the creatures sniff at him. He reaches for the gun, but reconsiders. He notices the creature tethered by a rope, held by a dark man of tribal body paint. Twenty sets of green eyes glow through the thick. Ziggy, surrendering, knows this is one fight he cannot possibly win.