Winterpass

Preston climbed from the twisted metal and brushed himself clean while doing a quick examination of his extremities for injuries. He seemed to be alright; not a scratch, he thought as he continued his inspection. Not even a tear on his sport coat could be found. He took note of the time from his Breil Milano wrist watch, a wedding gift from his wife: 10:11 am. He thought how only hours earlier he had kissed his wife and daughter goodbye as they left him to catch his flight and now he was all that remained of the Boeing 737 and its passengers. Preston searched through the scattered seats and foam insulation that once resembled a plane, looking for his brown travel case. The smell of kerosene fuel, charred plastic and burning rubber mixed with the morning dew and hung heavily in the air. He tripped over seats, some still holding their belted occupants, beverage carts that had survived were scattered in random positions around the crater of earth. He worked his way toward the tail section of the plane, and began rummaging through the scattered debris of smoldering cloths and burst open luggage cases. An engine turbine blade embedded in the ground, a tire a long way from its original location still spinning on its strut. Preston spotted his little travel case cradled in the cargo webbing, like a bug trapped in a spiders web, and quickly began untangling it to find it in pristine condition. He found his cell phone and quickly dialed 9-1-1, but received no signal and stuffed the phone is his coat pocket. Someone had to know the plane crashed he thought, as he worked his way over the pile of luggage cases and airplane parts. He clutched his travel case like a football, slipping on the growing slick of aviation fuel and damp ground as he searched for a place to rest.

The mid-morning sun was blocked out by the black smoke of the smoldering plane as Preston took note of his whereabouts. Preston spotted a gravel road that disappeared on the horizon and wondered if he should try to reach help. The road looked lonely and offered no sign of location or direction as it stretched out before him. He looked back towards the wreckage, a black scar sliced into the field. Preston laid his little travel case next to him and caressed the soft leather shell, flipping the carrying handle in a nervous manner while sorting out his next move, confused why help had not arrived. This place looked familiar but Preston could not recall having ever been here before today. There was no breeze or chirping birds, just a deafening silence. He couldn’t even hear his own breath as he sat gazing between the remnants of flight 3471 and the long stretch of gravel road. He sat for what seemed hours by the crooked fence post, while recalling the violent jolt he felt moments before things went black.

Preston gathered up his little travel bag and headed back towards the remains of the plane to collect a few supplies for his journey down the gravel road. He laid open his travel case and pulled out his tan brim hat, snapping it against his knee to get its shape, putting it smartly on his head. He filled his travel bag with sodas and bags of peanuts, forcing the lid closed with the aid of his knee. Preston walked to the road taking one last look at the plane before starting down the gravel path, tan bag firmly grasped in his hand. The landscape opened before him in a grand expanse of rolling fields and hills; the sun at his back. He could smell the sweet scent of sunflowers and grain lingering in the air. There were no buildings or farm houses, no tractors to till the earth, and no silos to fill. Did no one know of their fate, he thought. Someone had to have seen the smoke or heard the crash, he said aloud to himself. Preston reworked through the flight, trying to remember any detail that would give him an answer.

He had left San Diego to attend a business conference in Chicago that morning, the plane having leveled off at thirty-two thousand feet. The beverages had been served; some passengers where drifting in and out of sleep while others passed the time reading the morning paper. The flight attendants gathered in the rear of the plane for their routine gossip session. Preston looked out the window, the hum of the engines lulling him to sleep. He woke to a violent shudder, his head bouncing off the bulkhead, his body becoming lighter, the belt tightening around his waist; holding him down. The flight attendants were now floating in space, sometimes pushed against the ceiling or crashing to the floor as they fought the changing gravitational forces with each spin of the plane. Beverage carts broke free, spilling their contents, adding to the chaos unfolding within the falling plane. Screams of fear and panic could be heard but seemed muffled over the whine of the out of control plane. Preston struggled to see out his window for any signs of damage only to be thrown back against his seat, then violently sideways into the bulkhead once more. The quickly changing view between sky and ground blurred his vision as he tried to brace for impact. Preston brought his knees to his chest wrapping his arms around his legs and waited; visions of his wife and daughter kept him company, his eyes locked on those of the young lady beside him. His ears popped as they gave way to the changing pressures of the lower altitude and he knew it would not be long, despite the drawn out passage of time. The plane shook and spun as it raced towards the ground. He gently closed his eyes saying goodbye to his wife and daughter…black.

Preston continued his trek down the unchanging scenic road hoping to find someone to share his plight; someone to take him back to his wife and daughter, but it seemed he had crashed in a ghost town where ghosts were not even present. Preston looked back towards the crash site, the smoke just wisps hanging in the still sky, for signs of help and realized the sun had not moved. Curious, he pushed his sleeve up slightly to reveal the face of his Milano watch: 10:11 am. That can’t be, Preston thought, putting the watch to his ear. He could hear the precise movement of his Italian watch ticking off the seconds but yet time seemed to have stopped. Preston paused and took in the infinite sweep of the gravel road, the unchanging barbed wire fences, the ocean-like fields of wheat, and the rolling hills that never seemed to get closer while mentally calculating his distance from the crash site. His intuition told him he was not making progress but his weary legs disagreed. He set his travel case down under an old oak tree flicking open the latches, the lid popping open like a jack-in-the-box and shifted through its contents of sodas, bags of peanuts, and cloths and found his copy of the San Diego Union-Tribune that he had picked up before his flight. Pushing back his hat, Preston sat, using his travel case for a seat and held the tribune in front of him with both hands. April of this year read the front page.

Flipping through the pages, Preston searched for something that might give a clue to his flight’s fate; a weather phenomenon perhaps, something they may have flown through, but he found nothing. Preston checked his watch again: 10:11 am. The sun hung frozen in space, unmoving through the hazy sky. He shifted off his travel case, popping the latches once more and grabbed for a soda and couple bags of peanuts, lying his head against the old oak tree. One-by-one he popped the peanuts into his mouth until a small collection filled his cheek and chewed his salty snack, washing it all down with his warm cola. Preston stared into the hazy sky; the clouds seemed flat and wearisome as he drifted into a restless sleep.
He traveled back to the comforts of his San Diego home, his wife Elizabeth caressing his cheek, her angelic smile waking him for breakfast as he shook off the remnants of the gravel road. It took him a moment to compose himself as he propped up on one elbow, looking longingly into his wife’s sea-green eyes. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the room and helped sooth Preston from his fitful sleep. The sound of the waiting shower motivated him off the bed as he threw back the flannel sheets and soon forgot about his terrifying journey down a lonely stretch of country road. The warm water danced of his body, invigorating him back to life as he stood under the showerhead. Toweling himself dry, Preston saw that his wife had laid out his cloths and dressed, eager for a cup of coffee. He scanned the room, performing a mental check-list; cell phone, plane ticket, conference itinerary. Satisfied with his inventory, Preston tossed his tan brim hat into the little travel case and snapped it shut. He slung his sport coat over his shoulder, and headed down stairs for breakfast.

Preston set his things down, his daughter Madison running to greet him. He picked the little 6 year-old up, spinning her in circles and drawing her close. Preston realized he would have just enough time for a cup of coffee before leaving for the airport and made a cup to go, his wife already bringing the car around. He scurried little Madison outside, grabbing his sport coat and travel case along the way. The airport was bustling with early morning travelers which forced Elizabeth and Madison to say goodbye at the curb. Preston hurried to the gate, stopping for a copy of the San Diego Union-Tribune and tucked it into his travel case. Flight 3471 was full as he squeezed into the window seat of 15D, putting his travel case in the overhead compartment. The plane taxied along and was clear for take-off as the engines roared to life, thrusting Preston into his seat, the plane banking left as it gained altitude. The flight attendants soon came with beverages, pouring Preston a cup of coffee which he set on the tray-table, stirring in a creamer and two sugars before taking a sip, when the plane, hitting a spot of turbulence caused the hot coffee into Preston’s lap. Preston jumped out of his seat bumping his head on a low branch of the oak tree. Preston wiped at the front of his pants now covered in warm soda and realized he was back in the field near the crash site, the sun still stuck in the hazy sky and his watch still insisting that no time had passed.

Preston gathered his travel case from under the oak and made his way back to the gravel road. He scanned the open fields hoping for a sign of help and noticed a precession of vehicles near the crash site. Finally he thought, as he raced back towards the remains of the plane thinking he would soon get out of this place and see his wife and daughter. Preston saw a crowd gathering; rescue workers no doubt shifting through the plane that fell from the sky. As he drew nearer he saw the group was seated in rows of chairs before a large platform, and heard names being read from a loud speaker…Timothy Decker, Melissa Decker, Johnny Dupree, Preston Kessler…a banner coming into view; “Flight 3471 One Year Memorial Service, Winterpass Iowa.” Preston closed his eyes while falling to his knees letting out a scream which echoed across the field.

Preston climbed from the twisted metal and brushed himself clean while doing a quick examination of his extremities for injuries…


(Word Count 2000)