WILD MEN OF ALASKA

chapter THREE

Skip cradled his arm next to his side, knowing it was broken. At least it seemed to be a clean break. He needed to immobilize it. The sooner the better. But first he needed to know where that smoke had come from. He was pretty positive what he’d told Wren was the truth. It made a lot of sense, what he’d been spewing, but he’d been surprised before. Besides, he’d helped Jim load the plane. There was more being flown to Egegik than him and Wren and their luggage. Supplies were back there. Supplies he hoped contained food and nothing flammable.

He nodded to the fire extinguisher Wren clutched in her hands like a safety blanket. “You know how to handle that thing?” Being down to only one good arm, he wasn’t much help.

“Uh...yeah.” She looked at him weird. “You forgot about that Fourth of July when we lit the garage on fire?”

He barked out a laugh. “Damn, that seems like forever ago.” They’d been what? Ten, eleven and had wanted to see fireworks go off in the dark. Alaska’s daylight summers were horrible for firework displays. So they’d concocted this idea of lighting them off in the enclosed garage. Almost burning down the house. If it hadn’t been for Wren and her quick thinking with the fire extinguisher, the house would have been a goner, instead of just most of the garage.

They walked around the plane, hunching into the wind. It still had enough power to push them back. Wren stumbled around on the mossy ground.

There didn’t seem to be any sign of fire. Thank the good Lord. That would nail their chances of surviving for sure. They needed the plane for shelter from the brewing storm.

“Looks as though the smoke was from the landing, but keep the extinguisher close.” They trekked back to the front of the plane, the wind blowing them making the trip faster. Nothing seemed to be coming from the engine. But then the nose of the plane was buried deep in the spongy tundra. They climbed back into the plane, both shivering by the time he got the door wrenched closed behind them.

Skip tried not to look at Jim. He didn’t have time to mourn his friend. Not when he needed to get help on the way, or he’d be mourning more than just Jim. The radio. Hell, why hadn’t he thought of that first. He reached for the mic. “Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is November2195Charlie we are crash landed—” He glanced at the GPS coordinates and recited them, repeating his mayday call twice more before the Coast Guard answered.

The reply came back interspersed with a load of static over the radio. “Condition.”

“Three people. Pilot dead, one with a broken arm, another with a bleeding head wound, possible concussion.”

More static, and with dread, Skip made out the basics of what they were saying.

“Weather...grounded...buckle down...blows over.”

“Roger that.” Skip turned off the radio to save what battery they had left. He turned to Wren. “Looks like we are stuck here for a while, tonight, maybe tomorrow.”