THE EXPLOSION KNOCKED me out of the clearing. I fell through branches and bushes, all of them grabbing at my clothes and skin, tearing into both. When I hit the ground, there was a crunch under me. Charlie’s Polaroid. I don’t know how broken it is. There are shards of black plastic everywhere. Who knows if the film is even good anymore? Weirdly, my first reaction after I get my bearings is to reach for the snapshots in my pocket, the ones I took of the storm and maybe of the plane coming out of it. Also, the other thing—the man floating down to Windale on a parachute.
The photos are still there, still intact if a little crumpled. I don’t have time to look at them, though. Not when there’s a pillar of smoke rushing up out of the clearing and into the sky. One dark mass merges with another, and in a single confused moment, I swear the storm is reaching down, punching into the earth.
It starts to rain, and some of the smoke begins to clear. Through the trees, I can see misshapen hunks of the thing that used to be a plane. Some of the metal looks molten where it’s been torn apart. Glowing red teeth biting into nothing.
Beyond the mist and the smoke, Windale is just a dark splotch in the distance. But along the county road that winds up Dagger Hill, I can see pulsing red lights moving toward us. I can hear sirens getting louder, getting closer. Help is coming. If I can just get to the others, we might make it out of this.
Charlie and Sonya are still somewhere in the clearing. For a moment, I think I can hear Sonya calling for Charlie, but then her voice fades. Or what I think is her voice, anyway. My head could just be making shit up, trying to convince me that all this will somehow turn out okay. Even though it’s already so, so far from being okay.
I get myself up. My balance is wonky from being tossed like a Raggedy Ann doll, but I manage to stay on my feet. I put my back against a tree, waiting for the world to stop tilting. Across my body, I can feel burns and cuts and aches. And, I realize, a place on the back of my head that’s pulsing with its own special kind of agony. My left shoulder doesn’t feel right at all, and if I move it more than I have to, searing pain shoots down to my fingertips, up into my neck.
It takes me a minute, but eventually I build up the confidence to push off one tree, clutching my bad arm against my chest as I stumble over gnarled roots and wet, tangled brush, then fall back into another tree. With the rough bark and sturdy support of the trunk behind me, I fight back a wave of nausea—from the pain, from the panic, from my equilibrium, which is so fucked at this point that I can’t even believe it.
How did this happen?
I circle the tree trunk, keeping my back to the clearing and the wreck, afraid that other parts of the plane might decide to explode. If I can work my way around the clearing like this, slowly (very slowly) but surely, I can get back to the hiking trail, back to my car, where the first responders will hopefully be gathering, and I can lead them back to Charlie, Sonya, and Kim.
Focus, I tell myself, reciting my pregame mantra. Take it one yard at a time. I close my eyes, take a deep breath.
When I open them again, I see Kimberly. She’s on her back, arms splayed, thrown from the clearing just like I was. Her face is smeared with soot and blood. The scrunchie in her hair is loose, barely staying in place. Her curls have fallen in every direction, matted and clinging to her forehead in the rain.
“Kim!” I yell. Part of me can’t believe I’m actually looking at her. “Kimberly!”
She doesn’t move. Through the pouring rain, I can’t tell if she’s breathing. She’s perfectly still, eyes closed, not even a twitch in her fingers. I’ve seen her sleep before—we’ve all spent the night at Sonya’s house together more times than I can count—and Kimberly’s never looked like this.
My stomach drops. A lump pushes up into my throat. There’s a pressure behind my eyes that threatens to break, to form tears that will only get lost in all the rain that’s dripping down my cheeks.
It’s hardly a whisper when I say her name this time.
She’s not that far away—a few feet maybe. I could reach her if I tried. But then what? With my dizziness and my popped arm, all I could do is lie there with her. Maybe that’s enough. For at least two of us to be together when whatever’s going to happen happens.
So I push back against the tree trunk and take a step forward, ignoring the way the world dips to one side like an imbalanced scale. Immediately, my foot gets hooked under a thick root, and I pitch forward, splashing to the ground in a pool of soupy mud. My left arm shoots out instinctively to help brace for the fall, and fresh pain rockets through me. I try to bite back a scream, but it gets loose anyway.
I’m soaked down to my very core, my lungs still aching from all the smoke I inhaled, my arm throbbing, my head swirling. My drenched clothes are weighing me down. I feel like I’m being battered by the downpour. Charlie would be quoting Marty McFly right about now: This is heavy, man.
Kimberly hasn’t moved. I look up at her, only a foot or so closer now, wishing that the rain would stop so I could see if her chest is rising and falling. She’s a fallen statue, left to the elements. And I’m a weeping teenager, too afraid to be anything else, staring at my friend who might be dead.
Something moves between the trees behind where Kimberly is lying. A figure … a person. They’re coming this way, materializing out of the sweeping fog that’s a mixture of spattering rain and drifting smoke.
At first, they’re just a dark silhouette, a human-shaped gap in reality. But then their features start to come into focus—tall, slender form; black boots and black pants and a black leather jacket, shiny and slick from the rain; dark gloves worn over long fingers that are squeezed into vicious-looking fists; a black cap hiding their hair; and the last thing, covering their face, is a gas mask, black like everything else, with dark, bug-eyed lenses and a metal canister screwed on where the mouth is.
Whoever they are, they look more like an insect in that getup than anything else. But they have to be here to help. They must be one of the volunteer firefighters, wearing their own gear. Or maybe just a Good Samaritan from town who saw the crash and came up here on instinct. I know plenty of people in Windale who would do something like that.
As I watch them approach, boots squelching through the muck, I notice broad shoulders and dense, muscular legs underneath the metalhead outfit. There’s still a chance they could be a woman, but they’re probably a man.
A bug man, I think, watching those big gas mask lenses watch me.
The Bug Man steps up beside Kimberly, staring at me for a moment. I can see the clearing and the ruined, burning plane reflected in his creepy insect eyes. Then he looks down at Kim, seeming to assess the damage.
“Help her!” I call weakly. “Please help her first! Get her out of here!”
He doesn’t look up, but he does squat down next to her, casually resting his arms on his knees, letting the rain spill over him.
“Please,” I say again. My head is starting to spin, and my one good arm is weak from holding myself up. I don’t know how much longer I can keep it together.
The Bug Man tilts his head back up and locks on to me with his wide stare. He doesn’t stand, doesn’t move any other part of his body. But with one gloved hand, he gives me a thumbs-up. If not for the weather and the burning aircraft behind me, I’d probably be able to hear the creak of the leather covering his hands.
Then he puts his arms under Kimberly and scoops her up. She’s sopping wet, covered in grime. Her limbs just hang there, dangling like lengths of thick, pale rope. I can’t tell for sure, but I think I see her turn her face into the crook of the Bug Man’s elbow. A burst of relief falls over me, and my arm finally gives out. I tip over onto my side and lay in the mud, letting the world go fuzzy and dim. I can’t remember if you’re supposed to go to sleep if you have a concussion. Probably not. I can’t help it, though. I’m just so tired.
I watch the Bug Man take a step back, his glass eyes watching the clearing behind me, surveying the destruction. Then he turns, with Kimberly still in his arms, and walks deeper into the woods. He’s doing what I asked, getting her out of here, getting her to safety. I can only assume that others are doing the same for Charlie and Sonya, and that sense of relief gets stronger.
The tall shape of the Bug Man morphs into the trees and the trees morph into blurry gray lines and those morph into solid black nothing. Before I let myself go, I see Sonya’s face, the way it was lit up by the sun earlier today. Her eyes are a couple of brilliant sparks that light my way through the darkness.
And then I’m gone.