Alive

Alive

The picturesque cottage sat in midst of a rolling pasture.  Lazy cows grazed and shooed flies.  Dogs barked in the distance.  A dull drone from the nearby highway infringed on the solitude.  Mom in her wheelchair, Dad in a patio chair, and Libby lounged in front of the white, black-shuttered homestead which was ringed by mountains.    Dad’s manicured flower gardens framed the house. The front porch was an excellent place to sip tea and watch the world go by with idle family chat.

The view was amazing from that spot.  I could see all the way into downtown eight miles away. The mountains that late spring day were fresh and young. I could almost identify each individual tree atop Read Mountain from my seat on the front steps.

My own house is situated across town near the airport, so I’m always subconsciously tuned into the comings and goings of aircraft. For example, every night at 10:23, the “giant” UPS jet takes off with a thunderous roar that seemingly lasts for days only to return in the morning at 6:57. That’s why I immediately looked up when I heard the sound of a different aircraft, one with which I wasn’t immediately familiar.

A droning sound, one that I’d heard before…long ago; the workhorse grunts of a McDonald-Douglas DC-3.  Struggling against the sky, twin props straining, the ancient relic defied gravity and cut against the air as it impossibly stayed aloft.  But it wasn’t alone in the sky.

Following closely behind the DC-3 was another relic, a B-1 Bomber.  This airship, capable of hauling nuclear tipped missiles deep into enemy territory, was all but disowned by the US Air Force in favor of its darling baby brother, the B-2 Bomber.    Moving slower than rationally possible, the B-1 seemed tired as if it was being lead to some unknown doom.

Our conversation stopped mid-sentence, and I leaped up to get a better view and the planes came closer and closer.  I couldn’t believe how low and slow they were moving.   Then, as if a puppet master cut his string, the B-1 stopped flying and started dropping.  Coming right at my parents’ cottage, it passed barely above the roof and crashed into the pasture just beyond and burst into flames.

I ran toward the crash site and rounded the corner of the house just in time to see the pilot in full flight suit walk out of the flames talking with his cell phone to his ear.   Standing in the middle of the field with the ball of flames behind him, he was having an animated conversation with someone on the other end of the line.  I couldn’t make out what he was saying through the noise of the destruction. 

 

He cut a striking image standing in that field framed by flame. 6'4", trim, scuffed face with rosy cheeks, tan flight suit with lots of buckles and with his sandy hair combed neatly aside, he was a sight in the middle of that field. I shouted over and over…”ARE YOU OKAY?”  But he just kept talking on his phone, completely ignoring me.

I pushed past him and ran through the field to the crash site.  The ball of flame had suddenly given way to neighborhood curiosity seekers, local trophy hunters, police, and FAA agents.  I watched, dumbfounded, as grinning zombie people walked into the smoldering wreckage and came away with communications gear, headphones, and missile parts while the police struggled to cordon off the area in yellow tape.

 

A team of officials with FAA badges affixed to their navy blue blazer lapels, picked through the debris carefully making notes on clipboards.  I decided that I had to share my eye-witness account, so I found the nearest agent.  I waited patiently beside her as she finished noting something, then I introduced myself and told her that I was probably the only actual eye-witness to the crash.  Her interest peaked; she introduced herself as Agent Marci.

Bearing a striking resemblance to Scully from X-Files, Agent Marci had me sit down on a field rock as she probed me for information.  She was especially interested in my description of the pilot, but she wouldn’t say why.  Her questions increasingly became hushed, as if we were conspirators in some horrible crime. 

 

Without warning, the radio in her coat pocket beeped twice.  She froze, then leaped up and shouted, “RUN! GET OUT OF HERE! GO!!! NOW!!! DON’T LOOK BACK!”

I ran, but I did look back.  That, I suppose was my mistake.  My foot found a rock and I went down hard, turning my ankle severely.  Pain swept through my body coursing in tandem with fear and flight.  I tried to scramble to my feet, but my ankle wouldn’t hear of it.  So I began clawing forward on all fours.  It didn’t take the large men in dark suits more than a few moments to surround me.

 

They slammed me onto my face, cuffed me with my arms behind my back, and dragged me to the back of a beaten old truck trailer.  Rudely, they threw me into the darkness, and I struck something unusually soft; another human form. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized that I wasn’t alone. A bluish glow cast a pale shadow of light throughout the prison.  At the light’s origin, the pilot was jabbering away, unaware of his surroundings.  Other human forms were scattered about.  Some in FAA blazers; some in t-shirts.

As fate would have it, I found myself next to Agent Marci.  Her screaming eyes were wild and unfocused, like she had just experienced something so very wrong and alien.  With focus coming back to me, I reared back and rammed my head against hers in an attempt to snap her out of her terror.  It worked. She snapped back to the present and we began to plot our escape together.

Hope was fleeting, however, as the doors to the trailer groaned open and the black suits stepped inside.  They went right for Marci and jabbed her with a hypodermic needle, injecting a greenish fluid into her body.  Then they grabbed me, tossed me against the trailer wall and injected me with the same.

I don’t know what happened next, and I don’t know what happened after that.  As I sat in the far end of the forum awaiting the speech, I became aware of my surroundings.  The arena reminded me of the Roman’s Circus Maximus.  We were seated at the absolute opposite end of the arena from a throne.  A man, dressed in glittering clothes that would have made Michael Jackson and the Emperor of Star Wars envious, sat there, supreme in his authority.  He was being showered with golden gifts and parading subjects.  All saluted and hailed him.  Only then did I realize that I was seated next to Marci and the pilot.

I nudged her, startling her from a deep concentration.  She, in turn, nudged the pilot, who for the first time wasn’t talking to an imaginary person on a cell phone. With just nods and winks, we made our escape plan.

On the nod of heads, we slipped away.