Someone put a lift kit on it and took like half of it off and I’ve been fighting to get it 100% for two years now
Mechanic fixed rear diff click 500$ Dealership “ran over something in the road” as they were testing the car Back right tire about fell off after they put that tire back on after they replaced it It’s had a steady bump in it driving since that happened Just got 4 new tires and an alignment, a fresh start
Back tires wear on the outside on my fixed rear diff, 65$ mechanic fee They say i had an after market lift kit that’s still half on with the oem parts mixed in so it’s throwing it off and they say my rear diff is bent causing it to be out of camber
59k miles on it so the dealer should be able to warranty it, right???
I just want my jeep stock like I thought it was when i got it, but the dealership literally wouldn’t fix anything that was happening to it whenever i bring it to them.
Any advice? Tallahassee dodge Ram Chrysler jeep
So I’m going to look at two trucks tomorrow and don’t really know which one I should get. (Never owned a diesel before). One is a 2018 Ram 1500 sport with 78,00 miles on it for $35k (eco diesel)
the other one is a 2015 2500 Laramie with 162,00 miles on it (Cummins) for $37k. I know Cummins are supposed to be top of the line engines but with that many miles on it I’m not sure. So I’m asking the community. Tia.
Our 2001 had oil leak and 02s probs. 1st mechanic did gasket+clean plug wells, new plugs, wires, cap+seal, rotor, O2s, timing belt, serp belts, and VTEC seals. Oil leak was fixed but still had code. But still 02s code. He said the wire harness had oil on it. So he put in another one, cleared the code, and said it was good….No good. He put in a new O2s, cleared code, and said it was good….nope. He suggested a valve adjustment but he couldn’t do it: “special tools”. Went to different mechanic, had valve adjustment, and we’re all good. But! He said the EGR port(s) “will be an issue down the line” $700 estimate. I know EGR valve is nbd. But, are ports that tricky?? It’s just been a lot ($$) already:/
TLDR; is $700 right for “EGR ports” (I assume he meant ‘cleaning’ them) Thank you!
I bought my truck from a dealer about 2 months ago and the truck only has 14k miles on it, since I’ve had the truck the code for “coolant valve A stuck open” has been on. I talked to the dealership about it and my warranty only covers the parts and labor but I would still have to pay 180$ for diagnostic. The part itself is less than 50 bucks and I don’t have any issues, coolant is at normal temps and the transmission is normally at 150-170 and the heater blows hot when it’s on. When I clear the code it stays off until I shut the truck off and restart it. Any suggestions? I just don’t want to pay the 180$ if I don’t have to but it seems I’m going to have to
Been facing overheating issues on the coolant temp the last month or so. All other temperatures (Oil, Trans, etc) are running perfectly fine. Not a car guy at all so kind of lost. There has never been anything like smoke coming out the engine nor smoke coming out of my exhaust.
Dodge Challenger 2018, 91,000 Miles, 3.6L V6 Engine
Through the month of May i've replaced
Coolant Tank - There was a small crack and it was leaking, so I initially assumed it was the cause. Had these fixed but the car was overheating again. Mechanic forgot to bleed it so I had it bled. It continued to overheat. Temp was still too high. I pulled over, had it cool down and slowly worked my way home while watching the coolant temp. Temp on the freeway was manageable. The heat was also not working.
Radiator Fan - Because temp on the freeway was manageable (well intermittently), new mechanic assumed it might have been a radiator fan problem. The radiator fan was indeed not working (Or might have malfunctioned due to bad coolant circulation per the most recent mechanic). Got it fixed, was working for a little bit before it started getting hot again. Cranking the heat to the max solved the issue and let me drive it at a perfect 185. The heat was working now. Obviously driving w/ max heat is annoying so got it fixed again.
Thermostat & Radiator - Went to one of the better mechanics in the area, who quickly noticed some irregularities. He thinks the coolant wasn't circulating well as the radiator was cool to the touch after a long drive + the fact that the coolant fan's air output was warm in one place but completely cold in another. He replaced the thermostat (OEM) and radiator (aftermarket, but not a shitty one). It was bled of air bubbles and coolant was replaced during the service.
Coolant operating temperature is now currently 205-235 (No Heat) or a consistent 210 (With Heat Cranked). I opened the hood after. One of the coolant hoses was piping hot but the radiator fan was outputting cold air on one side and room temp air on the other. The heat is working fine.
Any idea what it may be? Maybe a faulty water pump? Clogged Hoses?
Why are there almost no Dodge/Ram truck bodies available for anything. The few they did have are discontinued or backorder. There's Cuda, Charger and Challenger bodies for the drag / drift stuff but nothing for 10th scale and up trucks. Why no Mopar love?
I was driving my truck and all of a sudden I got the dreaded red lightning bolt on my dash, I wasn’t to worried about it because I hadn’t noticed anything different about the vehicle at the time. A week later I went to the store, shut the vehicle off, came back, and it wouldn’t even crank. Originally I thought it was the fuel pump, so I replaced that, and now the vehicle will kind of start. It won’t exceed 5mph, there’s a loud popping in the engine, and when I hit the brakes they are very stiff, I’ve replaced the Throttle body, MAF sensor, and s few other sensors and I still can’t figure it out. My code reader isn’t picking up any codes, I’m out of a job because I haven’t had a running vehicle in over a month, I don’t have the money to take it to a shop. The truck also shakes really hard, and is a lot louder now. The vehicle is an 04 dodge ram 1500, 5.7 V8.
Hey folks! New Ram owner and loving it so far. Went with a 2022 RAM 1500 Laramie new on the lot a couple months back. It's also my first truck, having had an Altima and a Rogue prior to this. I'm hunting a tonneau cover, but I have the bed rail system that came with my truck. I'm not one to ever carry tools, but I've got a long distance trip coming up and have 3 others with me. So, we'll need to use the bed for our luggage. I'm not opposed to rollups or folding ones, but don't want to spend a ton of mo ey on something I'll rarely use.
Any suggestions for a tonneau cover that works with the bed rail system and no rambox?
This might be a very stupid question but I just did an oil change (my first one) on my car, it’s 2011 Dodge Caliber. After just finishing it and topping off the oil I went to check the level and the dipstick appears to be dry? Is this normal, does it just take a minute for it to reach the pan or should I be worried? There doesn’t appear to be a leak anywhere
First I have a hardship license so I do drive but I have a white 2007 Chevy 1500 and it done some things I’m not sure about, I’m 15 but I think something’s like, in it. Or something, let me talk about it. So I drive around our road we in country and I drive by myself sometimes when I’m not supposed too and the truck does this thing with the radio, I like to floor it and always looking for a good song on the radio so that week I took a ride going to make a left to turn around at a church and come back and a bit before the turn I hit a station playing a song, it told me to take it slow and not get distracted by the radio and told me to make my left at the next road and then my age, the song is sixteen by Thomas Rhett, I thought it was weird but I went out again later that day and I floor it going fast and decided to turn on the radio again and all I had to do was click the radio button and the song was right there right at the words, it told me take it easy(song is take it easy by eagles). And that was weird. this truck is trying to talk to me through the songs on the radio. And next day I went to pull into store lot and I was listening to songs and the song I had it on was playing some nasty music about hate and junk and I told it to play something good I don’t like that garbage and then I change to the next station and it’s right at the words of the song, “what you gonna do?”. The song Is made you look by Meghan trainor. Maybe that was something? Idk, but the truck has been running rough and a few days after, it started stalling and we changed the distributor cap. That fixed it. Then I asked my dad if I could take it down the road to test it and I decided to hit it again even tho the truck told me twice to not do what I do but I speed down it flying over bumps and I went down the little hill on our road and I hit it because it’s straight and long and I speed up to like 60 on that little road and then I press the brakes and it’s literally probably half the power, I hit it and the brake pedal went to the floor and it wasn’t fully stopping it slowed down enough for the turn but I was still a little fast but I had the brake to the floor! but bro they were working fine on the way down there but what I’m guessing is, the truck was tryna make me crash because I don’t listen to it about speeding. but I went back and my told my dad about the brakes problem(I never told him anything about the truck being weird before and still haven’t I wanna keep it a secret) and he was like David stop lying and I’m like yeah the brake arnt working right. And the next morning we took it out and he saw they weren’t and I had to pump the brakes to stop and we pulled into Walmart and looked at them and the brake line was cut and oil spraying all over, so we went to fix it and yeah. And the next week on a nice Saturday morning when every one sleeping in my house I took the truck out and floored it again, I floored it and speeding round corners and stuff and i know it’s dumb. But I can’t help it. I’m alone and don’t get to drive it much. And it’s fun! But I done it, and as I was going I said out loud what do you have to say about this! And all I did was click the radio on and what did I hear? “SLOW RIDE, TAKE IT EASY!”. So that’s the way it is with all these songs, they are the right songs, at the right spot, that’s what I mean by this truck talks to me. I was always turning on the radio and asking questions to it whenever I could I always now turn on the radio and ask things like can you play my favorite song? It has a few times, I change the station and one them is playing one my favorite songs, Pearl Jam, The Rolling Stones, twisted sister and 4 non blondes. And a few weeks later I was in the truck and my sister asked to turn the truck on, so I let her have the key and turn it on and she turns it twice but not fully and she says she scared because it won’t start and i told her turn it rest way and let off and she turned it and let off, now this truck when it starts revs up to like 1200 rpm’s sometimes but this time it revved up to 4000 rpm, and she says what wrong with it and it’s revving at 4000 for like 5 full seconds before lower back to where it should be, and my foot wasn’t on the gas and I don’t put it on it when starting, so I thought that wasn’t normal. But that was the only time it done it is when my little sister started it. And one time in the parking lot at the store I turned on to find a song and one song was asking about if you love me and I said said yeah I love you, and I went to next station and it played more than words by extreme and that songs about showing my love. But this is what I remember from it I ain’t with the truck no more it’s with my older sister she has it now, so these are the kind of things it does, I’m sure it did a lot other times but these are some them, yes this is all true the lines being cut the radio it revving it’s all true it all happened, but what you think about all this?
Sleep was a respite only in the way it separated the past from the new. A fresh start each day meant something different. You had survived and were still providing, still waking up everyday, optical lens’ able to catch the light of whatever star you labored underneath.
Gareth knew something was being lost. A call from the chambers of his sleeping physical brain, the hidden gods and their infinite creativity caged behind a synthetic wash of sedatives, used to keep the outer realms of consciousness at bay.
He was thinking of lost dreams, trying to remember the night terrors he had as an adolescent, shrieking to the dark wind at something he now couldn’t picture.
“Are you hearing me? They want you to absorb thirty-five percent of losses, covering just the gloves alone. What the fuck were you thinking Gareth?” Eris tapped elegant mechanical hands folded upon the jet black steel table between them.
Gareth looked up, “I was thinking about the narrative. I was trying to find the time.”
“Oh bullshit,” Eris scoffed, “Triarch will be coming through those doors in twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, they left me unbriefed.”
Gareth’s glove was still as he sat and tried to ignore Eris. If they wanted him off the restoration sector, then fine. By all means. He would be happy to operate anywhere else. Even containment and corrections were beginning to look bright.
Silence descended between them as they waited for their superiors to arrive, worry twisting their stomachs. Eris was tapping a weathered spot on the back of his right hand, something he always did when he was nervous. Gareth had worked with him for over a century and it was a habit that had never changed. The sound resonated with some part of his stimulant addled brain.
“What was in it, anyways?” Eris finally asked.
Gareth shook his head, “I don’t know, it’s sitting in my laboratory. Mostly data from the airbase we’re passing over.”
Gareth wondered if the LIDAR scans had been completed. There was also the secured safe, which was sitting in his lab. Awaiting his dissection.
Eris shook his head and huffed, “so all this for pretty much–nothing? Fantastic.”
The entrance chimed and Eris stood to attention as a team of deadly looking security gloves guided a smaller administration official into the wide, low chamber.
The one called the Triarch.
The security team dispersed to the corners and entrances of the room and the affluent looking Triarch took his seat. The glove he wore was refined and set him apart from the others, just as it was intended to do. Hand pitted copper inlays and traces of gold glinted in the low lighting of the meeting chamber.
“Eris, please.” Triarch motioned towards the middle edge of the table, where a seat had already manifested from the floor.
“Of course, thank you.” Eris sat, the small nervous tapping of his hand just under the awareness of the rest.
Triarch’s optics focused on Gareth, “this isn’t the first time we’ve met.”
“It is not.” Gareth replied.
“I believe our last meeting was in regards to workplace safety. It feels as if we’re repeating ourselves. Eating our own tail.” Triarch placed both hands flat on top of the table.
“The added layer of chemical security was unexpected, the first time I’ve ever encountered such a modification. Tetrahyrdolytic-M88, a substance used in arc fusion reactors to keep the inside of the reactor free from molecular impurities. This is the first time I’ve seen it used outside of its intended application, if I’m to be honest.”
Triarch’s head twitched to the side, “this is something that would have been discovered, had the proper safety protocols been followed.”
Gareth had no reply. It was unambiguous, he was right as right could be. If they had tapped the outer seal, it would have registered and they could have proceeded in a different manner. Trigam’s way.
A safer way.
“You’ve been behaving as if our resources are infinite,” Triarch began, spreading his hands, “thirteen engineers, the cost of refacing and repairing the research bay, and the resignation of another one of your assistants. All for some comparable data. Where does it end?”
Gareth looked up, meeting Triarch’s opticals, “research requires sacrifice. The advances towards the narrative demand risks and I feel I’ve uncovered a relevant datagem from the airfield we are currently moving through.”
Triarch shook their head, “there are few datagems in our work worth the cost of the damage done today. The war here has already been lost, Yok Theron doesn’t care for the corpuscant he leaves behind. We are in a war, Gareth, that’s the reason we’re out here. To rebuild that which was lost, because we can’t afford to lose more. You’ve been through a lot of gloves, but younger inexperienced workers don’t have the same luxury. There’s a psychological impact, as well as monetary.”
Gareth conceded, “you’re right. I understand, my lack of discipline has been bothering me lately. Eris has given me direction and I will seek further counsel.”
The many lenses on Triarch’s face seemed to focus, “see that it’s done, archeotech. Your debt to the guard is beginning to cast a shadow.”
Triarch stood without warning and collapsed into the middle of his security, as they folded out of the dark door and were out of sight and mind. All meetings were like this, simple and as fast as possible.
“God almighty-,” Eris gasped.
Gareth sat, motionless.
Eris moved from the side of the table to the seat across, as he had been sitting before, “are you in this room? Did you hear what he just said?”
“I’m at the end of my rod, I heard him.”
Eris folded his hands, screeching metal sounding, “as your liaison, I need you to listen to me very carefully, Gareth. You need to focus, for fuck’s sake. Please, I beg of you.”
Gareth glanced down at the orange plastic covering his arms, sleek and dense. He could feel the anger flush through him, his actual skin rippling with heat and potential. So far away, but instant all the same.
“Leave me to my work, I’ll stay down. I promise.”
“Stay in your lab, at least for the next forty-eight hours. As soon as things calm, we can re-task and discuss where we’re at. Does that sound simple and doable, at all, to you?” Eris stood.
“Simple, totally doable.”
“Thank you-,” Eris moved to leave the meeting chamber, walking as if he were surrounded by broken glass, “I’ll catch back up with you in two days.”
Eris turned and exited the opposite door, a wave of air rushing out and away as it whooshed closed.
Gareth sat there for a while, unmoving. There was a small silver fleck of imperfection on the surface of the table and he was focused on it, his mind far away in a place where the pressures of life fell away like a cocoon, the blossom of worry and pain distant and stale.
“Sample D-1 seated and currently awaiting instruction.” Rube’s voice ripped him from the depths he was falling into.
“Initial analyses?” Gareth asked, standing and leaving the dim chamber.
“Grade composition of container: Pb, heavy lead shielding. Weight: 77kg-”.
“Please move the test article to hazard bay 443, I’ll be up shortly.”
Gareth walked through the massive inner structure of the Cube, making his way towards the MOL-44 printers. There would be a printer in the back left, just finishing a small ceramic urn full of ashes. He plucked the perfect white urn from the printing plate and left the upper sectors, making his way down to the bottom of the Cube.
It took two levicors and a small escalating platform, the journey to the usual outer seal he used was long and winding, taking him through the inner bays in a zig-zag pattern. The more random his habits, the more control he felt over his life. When everything was synchronized, unplanned deviation gave a sort of rush. A rush that washed away the sour taste of the meeting he had just sat through.
“Your debts are beginning to cast a shadow.”
Shadows were the result of light and he felt no brightness within. It was all darkness, no definition any longer to navigate.
Focus on the narrative, he thought to himself.
The pain he endured paled in comparison to what these people must have experienced in their final days or hours. The sky ablaze, nuclear death raining down, more bodies than flies. Oceans boiled, the atmosphere sheared off.
The echoes of his wails were nothing against the hurricane.
Gareth had finally reached the bottom level and could see the outer access door still a ways away, lit by a blue runner from above. He glanced down at the small ivory urn, making sure it was still intact. When he looked back up, there was someone standing in front of him, silhouetted in the dark.
Trigam’s voice called out through the cloud, “what do you do out there?”
He was a couple meters away, optics glinting in the low blue light.
Gareth stopped, his heart rate spiking, “what are you doing down here?”
Trigam spread his dark metallic hands and sauntered forward, “making sure you don’t wander off and have an accident. What else?”
Gareth tried to ping Rube, but his local gateway was blocked.
“What’s so important outside, that you would throw away a MK-V research glove? Like it’s scrap.”
Gareth started backing up and bumped into a solid plate of metal. He had walked past two gloves pressed against the walls like waiting vipers uncoiled, both wearing Atlas exoframes normally used in mining and heavy labor. They grabbed him by his arms and legs and raised him up, so that his feet were just off the floor. The sound of squealing and crunching metal and plastic echoed down the dark walkway.
“c15,000, c20,000? What is it? It’s more than MK-III engineers, I know that much.”
Gareth strained against the hold he was in, his small white urn shattering under the struggle. Ash and ceramic shards fell to the floor unnoticed.
“So what is it? Why do you walk out there?” Trigam asked, the angular build of his glove’s face inches away from Gareth’s.
Trigam didn’t allow him to answer, instead he rammed a charged copper spike into the side of Gareth’s neural controller, just inside his breastplate, sending waves of pressurized spasms through his glove and into his body, back in the seed tank billions of miles away. Gareth screamed, but his agony was scattered by the network jammer currently enveloping the small group.
“Everyone said you were brilliant, eccentric. Working with you was something like rediscovering yourself,” Trigam laughed, “I was your slave for eight months and now I’m considering joining Yok.”
Trigam depressed a small switch and the pain spike went dead.
Gareth gasped for air through the feeling of being unwinded, his head spinning and his rage turned ashen and to despair.
“We can’t afford our own debt and we won’t take on yours.”
A short silence fell between them, before Gareth’s legs and right arm were pulled and ripped away from his body. Sparks and caustic hydraulic fluid sprayed in a wide arc, covering the shifting metal of the interior walls.
“Loss is part of the process,” Gareth sighed, “but I wouldn’t expect you to understand that. You never were very good at understanding that.”
Trigam smeared the clear oil along Gareth’s cheek, “you would be the expert of loss as well. Your bitch died and now you try to follow her, but Aetherguard will never let you die. You’re too special to them.”
The Atlas exosuits chomped down into the floor as the two holding Gareth started forward and hauled him towards the access door.
“It’s ten hours until sunrise, I hope you enjoy the little bit of leisure time we’ve bought you.” Trigam said, the access door whooshing open next to him and revealing the pitch dark howling night.
Gareth was tossed, like a dead battery, out into the ivory sand, tumbling end over end as he fell thirteen meters to the ground. The impact jittered his sensor core and his optics began an automatic reset, showing him the massive shifting wall of the Cube upon coming back online. He would give anything to close his eyes, but the pitch black was as close as he would get.
Every actuating joint and stabilizing core was damaged in the assault and now his entire glove vibrated in a kind of mechanical desynchronization. He hoped it would shake itself to pieces before he had to wait the agonizing hours for the star to rise over Kine’s horizon and cook him. The sooner he could get back and report this to Eris, the better his rage would be soothed.
Or so he hoped.
He still had slight control of the right arm they had left him and so he used it to push himself onto his back, face up and exposed to the sky above. His infrared lens gave the cosmos an ethereal shade, so much more to witness when looking outside the normal range. The sight of it all turned his awe to bitterness and guilt at the reminder of the casting away of his physical flesh. Not so much a loss, but a disconnection, controlled and bound by the numbers sworn fealty to as a neophyte. The end result was a sight so magnificent and so replicated it morphed into remorse.
No answer came, they had damaged his communication module as well it seemed. He was on his own in the desert. He could already see the small search drones, their thermals scanning the glowing sand, looking for an imperfection in a backdrop of white.
When he looked down, the sand tinkled and blazed with the same astigmatism as in the small desk art piece, in Eris’ office. He looked and realized the sand wasn’t crushed silicate, but tiny individual diatomaceous shells, heaped by the trillions. He magnified and marveled at the radiating mass grave of microscopic animals. There was something about this last rape in the environmental brief, but the fact seemed to have slipped away, lost in a trillion other details of calamity.
North was a ridgeline rising out of the dunes, he could try to climb that and then throw himself off when he reached a sufficient height. Perhaps he could cut a few hours off of the current timeline, get back to the Cube and wring necks. The plastics and soft materials of his glove had all already sloughed off, leaving him a mechanical shell crawling across the wasteland, one arm dragging himself along.
Perhaps this was what it felt like, a fraction of the narrative’s suffering.
His neural core was pulsing, the flash of agony on the back of his subconscious reminding him he could feel at all.
He knew it would only be a fraction of what Trigam and his thugs would endure.
The whirring blades of my MD-902 throbbed against the warm evening air, and I smiled.
From 5,000 feet, the ground flew by in a carpet of dark forests and kelly-green fields. The sun hung low on the horizon in a picturesque array of dazzling orange and gold, and I could make out the narrow strip of the Ohio River to my left, glistening in the fading daylight. This time of year, the trees would be full of the sweet aroma of fresh blossoms, and the frequent rains kept small pockets of fluffy white mist hanging in the treetops. It was a beautiful view, one that reminded me of why being a helicopter pilot trumped flying in a jumbo jet far above the clouds every day of the week. Fourteen more days, and I’m debt free.
That made me grin even more. I’d been working as a charter pilot ever since I obtained my license at age 19, and after years of keeping my nose to the grindstone, I was closing on the final payment for real-estate in western Pennsylvania. With no debt, a fixer-upper house on 30 rural acres all to myself, and a respectable wage for a 26-year-old pilot, I looked forward to the financial freedom I could now enjoy. Maybe I’d take a vacation, somewhere exotic like Venice Italy, or the Dominican Republic. Or perhaps I’d sock the money back for the day I started a family. “Remember kleineun, a real man looks after his own.”
My elderly ouma’s
voice came back from the depths of my memories, her proud, sun-tanned face rising from the darkness. She and my Rhodesian grandfather had emigrated to the US when they were newlyweds, as the violence against white Boer descendants in South Africa spiraled out of control. My mother and father both died in a car crash when I was six, and it had been my grandparents who raised me. Due to this, I’d grown up with a slight accent that many of my classmates found amusing, and I could speak both English, and Afrikaans, the Boer tongue of our former home.
I shifted in my seat, stretched my back muscles, and glanced at the picture taped to my console. Both my parents flanked a grinning, gap-toothed six-year-old me, at the last Christmas we’d spent together. My mother beamed, her dark hair and Italian features a sharp contrast to my father’s sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. Sometimes, I liked to imagine they were smiling at me with pride at how well I flew the old silver-colored bird my company had assigned to me, and that made the long, lonely flights easier to bear.
A flicker caught my eye, and I broke my gaze away from the photograph.
Perched in its small cradle above the controls, my little black Garmin fuzzed over for a few seconds, its screen shifting from brightly colored maps to a barrage of grey static. Did the power chord come loose?
I checked, ensuring the power-cable for the unit’s battery was plugged into the port on the control panel. It was a brand-new GPS unit, and I’d used it a few times already, so I knew it wasn’t defective. Granted, I could fly and navigate without it, but the Garmin made my time as a pilot so much easier that the thought of going blind was dreadful.
My fuel gauge danced, clicked to empty, then to full, in a bizarre jolt.
More of the gauges began to stutter, the entire panel seeming to develop terrets all at once, and my pulse began to race. Something was wrong, very wrong, and the sludge inside my bowels churned with sour fear.
“Come on, come on.” I flicked switches, turned dials, punched buttons, but nothing seemed to fix the spasming electronics. Every gauge failed, and without warning, I found myself plunged into inky darkness.
Outside, the sun surrendered to the pull of night, the sky darker than usual. A distant rumble of thunder reverberated above the roar of my helicopter’s engine, and I thought I glimpsed a streak of yellowish lightning on the far horizon to my left. Calm down Chris. We’re still flying, so it must just be a blown fuse. Stay in control and find a place to set her down.
My sweaty palm slid on the cyclic stick, and both feet weighed heavy on the yaw pedals. The collective stuck to my other hand with a nervous vibration, and I squinted against the abyss outside. Beep.
I jumped despite myself, as the little Garmin on my panel flared back to life, the static pulling aside to reveal a twitching display. Each time the screen glitched, it showed the colorful map detailing my flight path over the ground below, but I noticed that some of the lines changed, the names shifting, as if the device couldn’t decide between two different versions of the world.
One name jutted out at me, slate gray like most of the major county names, appearing with ghostly flickers from between two neighboring ones. Barron County.
I stared, confused. I’d flown over this section of southeastern Ohio plenty of times, and I knew the counties by heart. At this point, I should have been over the southern end of Noble County, and maybe dipping lower into Washington. There was no Barron County
Ohio. I was sure of it.
And yet it shown back at me from the digital landscape, a strange, almost cigar-shaped chunk of terrain carved from the surrounding counties like a tumor, sometimes there, sometimes not, as my little Garmin struggled to find the correct map. Rain began to patter against my cockpit window, and the entire aircraft rattled from a strong gust of wind. Thick clouds closed over my field of vision like a sea of gray cotton.
The blood in my veins turned to ice, and I sucked in a nervous breath.
Land. I had to land. There was nothing else to do, my flight controls weren’t responding, and only my Garmin had managed to come back to life. Perhaps I’d been hit by lightning, and the electronics had been fried? Either way, it was too dark to tell, but a storm seemed to be brewing, and if I didn’t get my feet on the ground soon, I could be in real trouble.
“Better safe than sorry.” I pushed down on the collective to start my slow descent and clicked the talking button for my headset. “Any station, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, over.”
“Any station, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, requesting emergency assistance, over.”
Still nothing. If the radio’s dead, I’m really up a creek.
With my hand shaking, I clicked on the mic one more time. “Any station, this is—”
Like a curtain pulling back, the fog cleared from around my window, and the words stuck in my throat.
Without my gauges, I couldn’t tell just how far I’d descended, but I was definitely very low. Thick trees poked up from the ground, and the hills rolled into high ridges with flat valley floors, fields and pastures pockmarking them. Rain fell all around in cold, silvery sheets, a normal feature for the mid spring in this part of Ohio.
What wasn’t normal, were the fires.
At first, I thought they were forest fires for the amount of smoke and flames that bellowed from each spot, but as I swooped lower, my eyes widened in horror.
They were houses.
Farms, cottages, little clusters that barely constituted villages, all of them belched orange flames and black pillars of sooty smoke. I couldn’t hear above the helicopter blades, but I could see the flashes on the ground, along the road, in between the trees, and even coming from the burning buildings, little jets of golden light that spat into the darkness with anger. Gunfire. That’s rifle fire, a whole lot of it.
Tiny black figures darted through the shadows, barely discernable from where I sat, several hundred feet up. I couldn’t see much, but some were definitely running away, the streaks of yellow gunfire chasing them. A few dark gray vehicles rumbled down one of the gravel roads, and sprayed fire into the houses as it went. They were fighting, I realized, the people in the trucks and the locals. It was horrific, like something out of war-torn Afghanistan, but worse.
Then, I caught a glimpse of the others
They didn’t move like the rest, who either fled from the dark vehicles, or fired back from behind cover. These skinny figures loped along with haphazard gaits, many running on all fours like animals, swarming from the trees by the dozens. They threw themselves into the gales of bullets without flinching, attacking anyone within range, and something about the way they moved, so fluid, so fearless, made my heart skip a beat. What is that? “Echo Four Actual to unknown caller, please respond, over.”
Choking back a cry of shock, I fumbled at the control panel with clumsy fingers, the man’s voice sharp and stern. I hadn’t realized that I’d let go of the talking button and clicked it down again. “Hello? Hello, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot out of Pittsburgh, over.”
An excruciating moment passed, and I continued to zoom over the trees, the fires falling away behind me as more silent forest took over. “Roger that Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, we read you loud and clear. Please identify yourself and any passengers or cargo you might be carrying, over.”
Swallowing hard, I eyed the treetops, which looked much closer than they should have been. How far had I descended? “Echo Four Actual, my name is Christopher Dekker, and I am alone. I’m a charter flight from PA, carrying medical equipment for OSU in Columbus. My controls have been damaged, and I am unable to safely carry on due to the storm. Requesting permission to land, over.”
I watched the landscape slide by underneath me, once catching sight of what looked like a little white church
surrounded by smaller huts, dozens of figures in the yard staring up at me as I flew over a towering ridgeline. “Solid copy on that Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot. Be advised, your transponder shows you to be inside a restricted zone. Please cease all radio traffic, reduce your speed, climb to 3,000 feet and proceed north. We’ll talk you in from there. How copy, over?”
My heart jumped, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Roger that Echo Four Actual, my altimeter is down, but I’ll do my best to eyeball the altitude, over.”
With that, I pulled the collective upward, and tried my best to gauge how far I was by eyesight in the gathering night, rain still coming down all around me. This had to be some kind of disaster or riot, I decided. After all, the voice over the radio sounded like military, and those vehicles seemed to have heavy weapons. Maybe there was some kind of unrest going on here that I hadn’t heard about yet? Kind of weird for it to happen in rural areas though. Spoiled college kids I get, but never saw farmers get so worked up before. They usually love the military.
Something moved in the corner of my eye, and I turned out of reflex.
My mouth fell open, and I froze, unable to scream.
In the sky beside me, a huge shadow glided along, and its leathery wings effortlessly carved through the gloom, flapping only on occasion to keep it aloft. It was too dark for me to see what color it was, but from the way it moved, I knew it wasn’t another helicopter. No, this thing was alive, easily the size of a small plane, and more than twice the length of my little McDonald Douglass. A long tail trailed behind it, and bore a distinct arrow-shaped snout, with twig-like spines fanned out around the back of its head. Whatever legs it had were drawn up under it like a bird, yet its skin appeared rough and knobby, almost resembling tree bark. Without pause, the gigantic bat-winged entity flew along beside me, as if my presence was on par with an annoying fly buzzing about its head.
Gripping the microphone switch so tight, I thought I’d crack the plastic, I whispered into my headset, forgetting all radio protocol. “T-There’s something up here.”
Static crackled. “Douglas Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, say again your last, you’re coming in weak and unreadable, over.”
“There’s something up here.” I snarled into the headset, still glued to the controls of the helicopter, afraid to deviate even an inch from my course in case the monstrosity decided to turn on me. “A freaking huge thing, right beside me. I swear, it looks like a bat or . . . I don’t know.” “Calm down.”
The man on the other end of the radio broke his rigorous discipline as well, his voice deep, but level. “It won’t attack if you don’t move too fast. Slowly ease away from it and follow that course until you’re out of sight.”
I didn’t have time to think about how wrong that sounded, how the man’s strict tone had changed to one of knowledge, how he hadn’t been the least surprised by what I’d said. Instead, I slowly turned the helicopter away from the huge menace and edged the speed higher in tiny increments.
As soon as I was roughly two football fields away, I let myself relax, and clicked the mic switch. “It’s not following.” “You’re sure?”
Eyeing the huge flapping wings, I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yeah, I’m well clear.” “Good. Thank you, Mr. Dekker.”
Then, the radio went dead.
Something in my chest dropped, a weight that made my stomach roil. This wasn’t right, none of it. Who was that man? Why did he know about the thing I’d just seen? What was I supposed to—
A flash of light exploded from the trees to my right and shot into the air with a long finger of smoke. What the . . .
On instinct, I jerked the cyclic stick to one side, and the helicopter swung to avoid the rocket. Boom.
My world shook, metal screeched, and a dozen alarms began to go off inside the cockpit in a cacophony of beeps and sirens. Orange and red flames lit up the night sky just behind me, and the horizon started to spin wildly outside. Heat gushed from the cockpit door, and I smelled the greasy stench of burning oil. The safety belts dug into my shoulders, and with a final slip, the radio headset ripped free from my scalp. I’m hit.
Desperate, I yanked on the controls, fought the bird even as she spun toward the ground in a wreath of flames, the inky black trees hurtling up to meet me. The helicopter went into full auto-rotation, the sky blurring past outside, and the alarms blared in a screech of doom. Panic slammed through my temples, I screamed at the top of my lungs, and for one brief second, my eyes locked on the little black Garmin still perched atop my control panel.
Its screen stopped twitching and settled on a map of the mysterious Barron County, with a little red arrow at the center of the screen, a few words popping up underneath it. You are here
Trees stabbed up into the sky, the belts crushed at my torso, glass shattered all around me, and the world went dark.
Copper, thick, warm, and tangy.
It filled my mouth, stank metallic in my nose, clogged my throat, choking me. In the murkiness, I fought for a surface, for a way out, blind and numb in the dark. This way, kleineun.
voice echoed from somewhere in the shadows. This way.
Both eyes flew open, and I gagged, spitting out a stream of red.
Pain throbbed in my ribs, and a heavy pressure sent a tingling numbness through my shoulders. Blood roared inside my temples, and stars danced before my eyes with a dizzying array. Humid night air kissed my skin, and something sticky coated my face, neck, and arms that hung straight up toward the ceiling.
Wait. Not up. Down
I blinked at the wrinkled, torn ceiling of the cockpit, the glass all gone, the gray aluminum shredded like tissue paper. Just outside the broken windows, thick Appalachian bluegrass and stemmy underbrush swished in a feeble breeze, backlit by flashes of lightning from the thunderstorm overhead. Green and brown leaves covered everything in a wet carpet of triangles, and somewhere nearby, a cricket chirped.
Turning my head from side to side, I realized that I hung upside down inside the ruined helicopter, the top half burrowed into the mud. I could hear the hissing and crackling of flames, the pattering of rain falling on the hot aluminum, and the smaller brush fires around the downed aircraft sizzling out in the damp long grass. Charred steel and burning oil tainted the air, almost as strong as the metallic, coppery stench in my aching nose. They shot me down. That military dude shot me out of the sky.
It didn’t make sense. I’d followed their orders, done everything they’d said, and yet the instant I veered safely away from whatever that thing in the sky had been, they’d fired, not at it, but at me.
Looking down (or rather, up) at my chest, I sucked in a gasp, which was harder to do that before.
The navy-blue shirt stuck to my torso with several big splotches of dark, rusty red. Most were clean slashes, but two held bits of glass sticking out of them, one alarmingly bigger than the other. They dripped cherry red blood onto my upturned face, and a wave of nausea hit me. I gotta get down.
I flexed my arms to try and work some feeling back into them, praying nothing was broken. Half-numb from hanging so long, I palmed along my aching body until I felt the buckled for the seat belts.
“Okay.” I hissed between gritted teeth, in an effort to stave off my panic. “You can do this. Just hold on tight. Nice and tight. Here we go . . .” Click.
Everything seemed to lurch, and I slid off the seat to plummet towards the muck-filled hole in the cockpit ceiling. My fingers were slick with blood and slipped over the smooth faux-leather pilot’s seat with ease. The shoulder belt snagged on the bits of glass that lay just under the left lowest rib, and a flare of white-hot pain ripped through me. Wham.
I screamed, my right knee caught the edge of the aluminum ceiling, and both hands dove into a mound of leaf-covered glass shards on the opposite side of the hole. My head swam, being right-side-up again enough to make shadows gnaw at the corner of my eyes.
Forcing myself to breath slowly, I fought the urge to faint and slid back to sit on the smooth ceiling. I turned my hands over to see half a dozen bits of clear glass burrowed into my skin like greedy parasites, red blood weeping around the new cuts.
“Screw you.” I spat at the rubbish with angry tears in my eyes. “Screw you, screw you, screw you.”
The shards came out easy enough, and the cuts weren’t that deep, but that wasn’t what worried me. On my chest, the single piece of cockpit glass that remined was almost as big as my palm, and it really
hurt. Just touching it felt like self-inflicted torture, but I knew it had to come out sooner or later. Please don’t nick a vein.
Wiping my hands dry on my jeans, I gripped the shard with both hands, and jerked.
Fire roared over my ribs, and hot blood tickled my already grimy pale skin. I clapped a hand over the wound, pressing down hard, and grunted out a string of hateful expletives that my ouma
would have slapped me for.
Lying on my back, I stared around me at the messy cargo compartment of the MD-902. Most of the medical supplies had been in cardboard boxes strapped down with heavy nylon tow-straps, but several cases had ruptured with the force of the impact, spraying bandages, syringes, and pill bottles all over the cluttered interior. Orange flames chewed at the crate furthest to the rear, the tail section long gone, but the foremost part of the hold was intact. Easily a million-dollar mess, it would have made me faint on any other trip, but today it was a godsend.
Half-blind in the darkness, I crawled along with only the firelight and lightning bolts to guide me, my right knee aching. Like a crippled raccoon, I collected things as I went, conscious of the two pallets of intact supplies weighing right over my head. I’d taken several different first-aid courses with some hunting buddies of mine, and the mental reflexes kicked in to help soothe my frazzled mind. Check for bleeds, stop the worst, then move on.
Aside from my battered chest and stomach, the rest of me remained mostly unharmed. I had nasty bruises from the seatbelts, my right knee swelled, my nose slightly crooked and crusted in blood, but otherwise I was intact. Dowsing every scratch and cut with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol I found, I used butterfly closures on the smaller lacerations that peppered my skin. I wrapped soft white gauze over my abused palms and probed at the big cut where the last shard had been, only stopping when I was sure there were no pieces of glass wedged inside my flesh.
“Not too bad.” I grunted to myself, trying to sound impassive like a doctor might. “Rib must have stopped it. Gonna need stitches though. That’ll be fun.
Pawing through the broken cases, I couldn’t find any suture chord, but just as I was about to give up, I noticed a small box that read ‘medical skin stapler’. Bingo.
I tore the small white plastic stapler free from its packaging and eyeballed the device. I’d never done this before, only seen it in movies, and even though the cut in my skin hurt, I wondered if this wouldn’t be worse. You’ve gotta do it. That bleeding needs to stop. Besides, no one’s coming to rescue you, not with those rocket-launching psychos out there.
Taking a deep breath, I pinched the skin around the gash together, and pressed the mouth of the stapler to it. Click.
A sharp sting, like that of a needle bit at the skin, but it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as the cut itself. I worked my way across the two-inch laceration and gave out a sigh of relief when it was done.
“Not going to bleed to death today.” I daubed ointment around the staples before winding more bandages over the wound.
Popping a few low-grade painkillers that tumbled from the cargo, I crawled wriggled through the nearest shattered window into the wet grass.
Raindrops kissed my face, clean and cool on my sweaty skin. Despite the thick cloud cover, there was enough constant lightning strikes within the storm to let me get glimpses of the world around me. My helicopter lay on its back, the blades snapped like pencils, with bits and pieces of it burning in chunks all around the small break in the trees. Chest-high scrub brush grew all around the low-lying ground, with pockets of standing water in places. My ears still rang from the impact of the crash, but I could start to pick up more crickets, frogs, and even some nocturnal birds singing into the darkness, like they didn’t notice the huge the hulk of flaming metal that had fallen from the sky. Overhead, the thunder rumbled onward, the feeble wind whistling, and there were other flashes on the horizon, orange and red ones, with crackles that didn’t sound quite like lightning. The guns. They’re still fighting.
Instinctively, I pulled out my cellphone, and tapped the screen.
It fluttered to life, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get through to anyone, not even with the emergency function designed to work around having no service. The complicated wonder of our modern world was little better than a glorified paperweight.
Stunned, I sat down with my back to the helicopter and rested my head against the aluminum skin of the craft. How I’d gone from a regular medical supply run to being marooned in this hellish parody of rural America, I didn’t know, but one thig was certain; I needed a plan. Whoever fired the missile could have already contacted my charter company and made up some excuse to keep them from coming to look for me. No one else knew I was here, and even though I now had six staples holding the worst of my injuries shut, I knew I needed proper medical attention. If I wanted to live, I’d have to rescue myself. My bag. I need to get my go-bag, grab some gear and then . . . head somewhere else.
It took me a while to gather my green canvas paratrooper bag from its place behind the pilot’s seat and fill it with whatever supplies I could scrounge. My knee didn’t seem to be broken, but man did it hurt, and I dreaded the thought of walking on it for miles on end. I focused instead on inventorying my gear and trying to come up with a halfway intelligent plan of action.
I had a stainless-steel canteen with one of those detachable cups on the bottom, a little fishing kit, some duct tape, a lighter, a black LED flashlight with three spare batteries, a few tattered road maps with a compass, a spare pair of socks, medical supplies from the cargo, and a simple forest green plastic rain poncho. I also managed to unearth a functioning digital camcorder my ouma
had gotten me for Christmas a few years back, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to do any filming in such a miserable state. Lastly, since it was a private supply run from a warehouse area near Pittsburgh to a direct hospital pad in Ohio, I’d been able to bring my K-Bar, a sturdy, and brutally simple knife designed for the Marine Corps that I used every time I went camping. It was pitiful in comparison to the rifle I wished I had with me, but that didn’t matter now. I had what I had, and I doubted my trusty Armalite would have alleviated my sore knee anyway.
Clicking on my flashlight, I huddled with the poncho around my shoulders inside the wreck of the chopper and peered at the dusty roadmaps. A small part of me hoped that a solution would jump out from the faded paper, but none came. These were all maps of western PA and eastern Ohio. None of them had a Barron County on them anywhere. The man on the radio said to head north, right before they shot me down. That means they must be camped out to the north of here. South had that convoy and those burning houses, so that’s a no-go. Maybe I can backtrack eastward the way I came.
As if on cue, a soft pop
echoed from over the eastern horizon, and I craned to look out the helicopter window, spotting more man-made flashes over the tree tops.
“Great.” I hissed between clenched teeth, aware of how the temperature dipped to a chilly 60 degrees, and how despite the conditions, my stomach had begun to growl. “Not going that way, are we? Westward it is.”
Walking away from my poor 902 proved to be harder than I’d anticipated. Despite the glass, the fizzling fires, and the darkness, it still held a familiar, human essence to it. Sitting inside it made me feel secure, safe, even calm about the situation. In any other circumstance, I would have just stayed with the downed aircraft to wait for help, but I knew the men who shot me down would likely find my crash site, and I didn’t want to be around when they did.
Unlike much of central and western Ohio, southeastern Ohio is hilly, brushy, and clogged with thick forests. Thorns snagged at my thin poncho and sliced at my pant legs. My knee throbbed, every step a form of self-inflicted torture. The rain never stopped, a steady drizzle from above just cold enough to be problematic as time went on, making me shiver. Mud slid under my tennis shoes, and every tree looked ten times bigger in the flickering beam of my cheap flashlight. Icy fear prickled at the back of my neck at some of the sounds that greeted me through the gloom. I’d been camping loads of times, both in Pennsylvania and elsewhere, but these noises were something otherworldly to me.
Strange howls, screeches, and calls permeated the rain-soaked sky, some almost roars, while others bordered on human in their intonation. The more I walked, the softer the distant gunfire became, and the more prevalent the odd sounds, until the shadows seemed to fill with them. I didn’t dare turn off my flashlight, or I’d been completely blind in the dark, but a little voice in the back of my head screamed that I was too visible, crunching through the gloomy forest with my long beam of light stabbing into the abyss. It felt as though a million eyes were on me, studying me, hunting me from the surrounding brush, and I bitterly recalled how much I’d loved the old Survivor Man
TV series as a kid. Not so fun being out in the woods at night. Especially alone.
A twig snapped somewhere behind me, and I whirled on the spot, one trembling hand resting on the hilt of my K-Bar.
Nothing. Nothing but trees, bushes, and rain dripping down in the darkness.
“This is stupid.” I whispered to myself to keep my nerves in check as I slowly spun on the spot. “I should have went eastward anyway. God knows how long I’m going to have to—” Creak.
A groan of metal-on-metal echoed from somewhere to my right, and I spun to face it, yanking the knife on my belt free from its scabbard. It felt so small and useless in my hand, and I choked down a wave of nauseas fear. Ka-whump. Creak. K-whump. Creak.
Underbrush cracked and crunched, a few smaller saplings thrashed, and from deep within the gloom, two yellow orbs flared to life. They poked through the mist in the trees, forming into slender fingers of golden light that swept back and forth in the dark. The soldiers . . . they must be looking for me.
I swallowed hard and turned to slink away.
Ice jammed through my blood, and I froze on the spot, biting my tongue to stop the scream.
It stood not yards away, a huge form that towered a good twelve feet tall in the swirling shadows. Unpolished chrome blended with flash-rusted spots in the faded red paint, and grime-smeared glass shone with dull hues in the flashes of lightning. Where the wheels should have been, the rounded steel axels curved like some enormous hand had bent them, and the tires lay face-down on the muddy ground like big round feet, their hubcaps buried in the dirt. Dents, scrapes, and chips covered the battered thing, and its crooked little radio antenna pointed straight up from the old metal fender like a mast. I could barely make out the mud-coated VW
on the rounded hood, and my mind reeled in shock. Is . . . is that a car?
Both yellow headlights bathed me in a circle of bright, blinding light, and neither I nor the strange vehicle moved.
Seconds ticked by, the screech-thumping in the background only growing closer. I realized that I couldn’t hear any engine noises and had yet to see any soldiers or guns pointed my way. This car looked old, really old, like one of those classic Volkswagen Beetles that collectors fought over at auctions. Try as I might, I couldn’t see a driver inside the murky, mold-smeared windows.
Because there wasn’t one.
Lightning arched across the sky overhead, and the car standing in front of me blinked.
Its headlights slid shut, as if little metal shades had crawled over the bulbs for a moment and flicked open again. Something about that movement was so primal, so real, so lifelike,
that every ounce of self-control I had melted in an instant.
Cursing under my breath, I lunged into the shrubs, and the world erupted around me.
Under my shoes, the ground shook, and the car surged after me in a cacophony of ka-thumps
that made my already racing heart skip several beats. A weather-beaten brown tow truck from the 50’s charged through the thorns to my left, it’s headlights ablaze, and a dilapidated yellow school bus rose from its hiding place in the weeds to stand tall on four down-turned axel-legs. They all flicked their headlights on like giants waking from their slumber, and as I dodged past them, they each blared their horn into the night in alarm.
My breaths came short and tight, my knee burned, and I crashed through thorns and briars without thought to how badly I was getting cut up.
The cheap poncho tore, and I ripped it away as it caught on a tree branch.
A purple 70’s Mustang shook off its blanket of creeping vines and bounded from a stand of trees just ahead, forcing me to swerve to avoid being run over, my adrenaline at all-time highs. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.
Slipping and sliding, I pushed through a stand of multiflora rose, and stumbled out into a flat, dark expanse.
I almost skidded to a stop.
What had once been a rather large field stood no taller than my shoestrings, the grass charred, and burnt. The storm above illuminated huge pieces of wreckage that lay scattered over the nearly 40-acre plot, and I could just make out the fire-blackened hulk of a fuselage resting a hundred yards away. The plane had been brought down a while ago it seemed, as there weren’t any flames left burning, and I threw myself toward it in frenzied desperation.
Burned grass and greasy brown topsoil slushed underfoot, and I could hear the squelching of the cars pursing me. Rain soaked me to the bone, and my lungs ached from sucking down the damp night air. A painful stich crept into my side, and I cursed myself for not putting in more time for cardio at the gym.
Something caught my left shoelace, and I hurtled to the ground, tasting mud and blood in between my teeth. They’ve got me now.
I clawed at the mud, rolled, and watched a tire slam down mere inches from where my head had been. The Mustang loomed over me and jostled for position with the red Volkswagen and brown tow truck, the school bus still a few yards behind them. They couldn’t seem to decide who would get the pleasure of stomping me to death, and like a herd of stampeding wildebeest, they locked bumpers in an epic shoving match.
On all fours, I scampered out from under the sparring brutes, and dashed for the crumpled airplane, a white-painted DC-3 that looked like it had been cut in half by a gargantuan knife blade. I passed a snapped wing section, the oily remains of a turbo-prop engine, and a mutilated wheel from the landing gear. Climbing over a heap of mud, I squeezed into the back of the ruined flight cabin and dropped down into the dark cargo hold. Wham.
No sooner had my sneakers hit the cold metal floor, and the entire plane rocked from the impact of something heavy ramming it just outside. I tumbled to my knees, screaming in pain as, once again, I managed to bash the sore one off a bracket in the wall.
My hand smeared in something gooey, and I scrabbled for my flashlight.
It clicked on, a wavering ball of white light in the pitch darkness, and I fought the urge to gag. “Oh man . . .”
Three people, or what was left of them, lay strewn over the narrow cargo area. Claret red blood coated the walls, caked on the floor, and clotted under my mud-spattered shoes. Bits of flesh and viscera were stuck to everything, and tatters of cloth hung from exposed sections of broken bone. An eerie set of bloody handprints adorned the walls, and the only reason I could tell it had been three
people were the shoes; all of them bore anklebones sticking out above blood-soaked socks. It smelled sickly sweet, a strange, nauseas odor that crept into my nose and settled on the back of my tongue like an alien parasite.
Something glinted in the beam of my flashlight, and my pulse quickened as I pried the object loose from the severed arm that still clung to it.
“Hail Mary full of Grace.” I would have grinned if it weren’t for the fact that the plane continued to buck and roll under the assault from the cars outside.
The pistol looked old, but well-maintained, aside from the light coating of dark blood that stained its round wooden handle. It felt heavy, but good in my hand, and I turned it over to read the words, Waffenfabrik Mauser
stenciled into the frame, with a large red 9 carved into the grip. For some reason, it vaguely reminded me of the blasters from Star Wars.
I fumbled with a little switch that looked like a safety on the back of the gun and stumbled toward a gap in the plane’s dented fuselage to aim out at the surrounding headlights. Bang.
The old gun bucked reliably in my hand, its long barrel spitting a little jet of flame into the night. I had no idea if I hit anything, but the attacking cars recoiled, their horns blaring in confusion.
They turned, and scuttled for the tree line as fast as their mechanical legs could go, the entire ordeal over as fast as it had begun. Did I do that?
Perplexed, I stared down at the pistol in my hand. Whoosh.
A large, inky black shadow glided down from the clouds, and the yellow school bus moved too slow to react in time.
With a crash, the kicking nightmarish vehicle was thrown onto its side, spraying glass and chrome trim across the muddy field. Its electro-synth horn blared with wails of mechanical agony, as two huge talon-like feet clamped down on it, and the enormous head of the flying creature lowered to rip open its engine compartment.
The horn cut out, and the enormous flying entity jerked its head back to gulp down a mass of what looked like sticky black vines from the interior of the shattered bus.
At this range, I could see now that the flying creature bore two legs and had its wings half-tucked like a vulture that had descended to feed on roadkill. Its head turned slightly, and in the glow of another lightning bolt, my jaw went slack at the realization of what it was. A tree trunk. It’s a rotted tree trunk.
I couldn’t tell where the reptilian beast began, and where the organic tree components ended, the upper part of the head shaped like a log, while the lower jaw resembled something out of a dinosaur movie. Its skin looked identical to the outside of a shagbark hickory but flexed with a supple featheriness that denoted something closer to skin. Sharp branch-like spines ranged down its back, and out to the end of its tail, which bore a massive round club shaped like a diseased tree-knot. Crouched on both hind legs, it braced the hooked ends of its folded wings against the ground like a bat, towering higher than a semi-truck. Under the folds of its armored head, a bulging pair of chameleon-like eyes constantly spun in their sockets, probing the dark for threats while it ate.
One black pupil locked onto the window I peered through, and my heart stopped.
The beast regarded me for a moment, with a curious, sideways sniff.
With a proud, contemptful head-toss, the shadow from the sky parted rows of razor-sharp teeth to let out a roar
that shook the earth beneath my feet. It was the triumphant war cry of a creature that sat at the very top of the food chain, one that felt no threat from the fragile two-legged beings that walked the earth all around it. It hunted whenever it wanted, ate whatever it wanted, and flew wherever it wanted. It didn’t need to rip the plane apart to devour me.
Like my hunter-gatherer ancestors from thousands of years ago, I wasn’t even worth the energy it would take to pounce.
I’m hiding in the remains of the cockpit now, which is half-buried under the mud of the field, enough to shield the light from my screen so that thing
doesn’t see it. My service only now came back, and it’s been over an hour since the winged beast started in on the dead bus. I don’t know when, or how I’m going to get out of here. I don’t know when anyone will even see this post, or if it will upload at all. My phone battery is almost dead, and at this point, I’m probably going to have to sleep among the corpses until daylight comes.
A dead man sleeping amongst friends.
If you live in the Noble County area in southeastern Ohio, be careful where you drive, fly, and boat. I don’t know if it’s possible to stumble into this strange place by ground, but if so, then these things are definitely headed your way.
If that happens . . . pray that they don’t find you.