Bullseye

Bullseye


         The cable snapped, and Rick knew his parachute was gone.  He shrieked a few choice words and flailed his arms.  His instructor’s parachute had opened, and she was safely floating some miles above him.  Rick could strangle his cousin right about now.  “Oh, go solo for that first jump, it’s amaaaazing!” he’d said.  He’d even forged the proof of a prior jump so Rick’s instructor would allow it.  Rick looked up at her rapidly shrinking form.  If only she had spotted the forgery!  But then, if they’d both been on this parachute, two people would end up pancaked instead of one.
         “Damn,” Rick said, to no one in particular, “You sure get a lot of time to think.”
         He broke through the lowest cloud layer and began judging which surface below him looked least painful.  Not the trees, he was sure of that; he’d rather not be torn apart on his way down.  Not the field either; at this time of year, it would be hard as rock and covered in spiky dead plants.  The lake?  No, from this height water’s worse than concrete.  If he didn’t make up his mind, he’d hit what was right below him—the interstate.  Then he saw the hot air balloon.
         It was flying low, just higher than the power lines, drifting slowly across a field.  It looked to be roughly in Rick’s path, heading away from him.  Recalling all the sky-diving promotional videos he’d seen, he straightened his body and tried to swim for it.  Sure enough, he felt himself changing direction ever so slightly.  Rick strained, paddled, kicked, wormed—everything he could think of to try and increase his forward progress.  A bit of an angle change wasn’t going to work, not when his downward progress had had such a head start. 
         While falling from that sort of height, perspectives get all screwed up.  Rick was sure he was going to miss the balloon; he judged himself to be far too short and worked to accelerate forward.  Unfortunately, he’d greatly underestimated both his height from the ground and the size of the average hot air balloon.  As he hurtled down his diagonal trajectory, he realized all of a sudden that, if anything, he’d overshoot. 
         “SHIT!” he screamed, scrambling and tumbling, trying to brake in midair, “PULL UP PULL UP!!”
         Maybe the balloon operators heard him, or maybe they just thought they could catch a better wind, but at that the balloon sped up and climbed a bit.  It was just enough.
         That afternoon, all the motorists on the interstate passionately wished they’d had video cameras.  Because of the balloon’s immense size, the crash appeared to move in slow motion.  A little black speck smashed into the top, just below the venting slits, pulling the whole side inward with it.  The flame, turned up full for the climb, exploded outward, lighting part of the basket on fire.  Tiny figures frantically tried to drop the backup propane canisters over the side.  Strained to their breaking point, the heavy-duty cables attached to the venting slits snapped, whipping around and sending the top piece of material flying away.  The falling weight, combined with the rapid deflation, sent the whole flaming wreck somersaulting to the ground. 
         Rick’s instructor landed at the site before rescue workers could arrive.  She fought with her cables and straps, tripping on her parachute as she ran toward the mess.  Both operators were okay, though both were burned and bruised.  They helped the instructor wade through the miles of nylon panels, looking for Rick.  He was hard to find; most of the balloon was wrapped around him.  When finally they uncovered him, he was in shock.  He was burned too, and his hips and arm were very clearly broken.  As the instructor leaned over him and asked if he was alright, he started laughing.
         “Bullseye,” he giggled, and passed out.