Wyatt isn’t a murderer by nature. Never enjoyed any of the kills he’s made, even to protect himself. So it’s slightly unnerving that his first thought is how he’s being presented with a slim window of opportunity that he’d better take before it disappears.
His pulse steadies instead of spikes. This decision is something he might over-analyze later, but at the moment, he simply takes his good fortune at face value and leans over to press the belt button beside him. “Here, lemme help you.”
The other man hisses in protest as whatever injuries he’s sustained likely flare to life on contact, but Wyatt ignores him, reaching past his body to pop open the plane door half an inch, letting the steel rest against the main compartment in an illusion of safety.
Hot desert air seeps inside, carrying the scent of dust and decay.
Then he brings his legs up and twists his body, grateful nothing feels broken, and aims the flat of both feet at his captor.
“Hey!” Wyatt barks, earning Vincent’s horrified stare for a split second. “This is for abandoning your wife and kid. Twice.”
Then he kicks him out of the plane with as much force as he can muster, hearing a thick thud as he hits the ground, followed by an increase in the chattering of excited rotters like sharks offered a bucket of dumped chum.
He secures the door again, leans back against the seat, and tries not to listen to the screams of someone being eaten alive. Tries not to focus on the fact that he caused that amount of suffering, or on how the fuck he plans to get out of here without earning the same fate.
The desert wind tries to swallow the sound of pain and only partially succeeds.
He had no other choice, Wyatt tells himself. Vincent never would have let him leave alive, and if he linked up with other members of his group, any hope of escape would be slim. Getting back to Addison is all that matters now. If that means taking out her ex in the process, then so be it.
It takes longer than he thinks it should for the agonizing screams to go silent. Long enough for the sun to begin to set and the pinks and purples of the sky to bleed into each other, the same way Wyatt’s own blood has bled into the fabric of his seat. Shadows stretch long across the rocks. The herd lingers, bumping against the hull, fingernails scraping metal in lazy, rhythmic drags.
He is trapped inside this plane, surrounded by rotters, in the middle of the fucking desert. It would almost be hilarious if he hadn’t lost all ability to find anything amusing.
Getting back home remains his only goal, but putting that into motion might be the most challenging thing he’s been faced with since the turn.
* * *
The plane does not explode. Which was Wyatt’s first worry the moment they crashed. It has shielded him from a herd of the dead for two nights instead. Even on her last legs, she is still looking after him, and it pains him to consider leaving the plane behind.
He runs his hand along the cracked dashboard like he’s saying goodbye to something that once knew him better than anyone. This is her final resting place, though, and unless Wyatt wants it to be his, too, he’d better figure out his next step fast.
The emergency supplies he stored in the back of the cabin are running low. His stomach growls, and his throat feels like sandpaper. His lips are splitting at the corners. He can’t remainhere, that’s for fucking sure. If the rotters don’t get him, plenty of other, more pressing conditions will.
Whatever remains of Vincent is a gory puddle seeping into the dust that has long since lost the interest of the dead. Some of them have begun to wander off this morning. Instead of the usual low rumble of their growls and moans, or the feeling of their combined weight shaking the plane hull, he only hears the relative silence of a new day. It’s his only chance to escape what could become his tomb, and so he grabs the empty bag that once held his water and food and crawls through the door at his side.
The sun is already merciless. It presses down on him like punishment. For what, he’s not sure. There are far too many options to pick from.
Those little rodents that scurry across the landscape hold the attention of the few rotters left, leaving Wyatt a relatively clear route out of the immediate danger zone.
His first instinct is to head north toward Addison, but there’s a lot of desert between him and her. Even in early winter, the climate is unforgiving. He can’t walk home if he has any hope of seeing her again.
He will need transportation. If any place is sure to have a Jeep or a side-by-side or anything faster than his own two feet, it’ll be one of these fancy resorts high up in the red rocks. Tourists were a big business here before the world went to shit, and before a cult decided to make Sedona its home base. If ever there was a place to offer him options, he supposes he landed in the right one.
There is a glittering beacon in the distance, nestled into the side of a winding mountain, barely visible except for its shiny glass reflecting the sunlight like a prism. It’s a modern abomination shoved into the natural landscape, designed to milk every last cent from rich visitors before the turn.
Now, it might be Wyatt’s last hope.
But something about how untouched it looks makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise. It could be salvation or a death trap.
* * *
He breaks the window of a locked convenience store just outside of downtown with his elbow. He expected a slew of the dead near the city center, but so far it’s been nothing but birds and the occasional roadrunner crossing his path. Not that he’s complaining. He’ll take whatever win he can find.
The glass shatters louder than he expects. The sound cracks through the stillness and echoes down the empty street like a gunshot. Wyatt freezes immediately, listening. Waiting for the answering chorus of groans or the scrape of dragging feet.
Nothing comes.
Just wind slipping through sun-bleached storefronts and the distant flap of a metal sign swinging loose.
