Page 29 of Final Approach

“We don’t need to do this, love.” He spoke since we were far enough away to muffle our voices against the musical backdrop. “Someone will show up soon, it’s only a matter of days, and we—”

“We need to do this for Jamie,” I finished for him.

Dipping my head in a stiff nod, I forced one foot in front of the other until I was back by his side. Whatever we found, who we were doing this for was what mattered. If there was a chance I could get him back to his family …

I would get him back to his family.

Determination replaced the heavy saturation of guilt. It was time to take the lead. My plane, my fuck-up, mine to solve.

“If we’re both sure he’s not in the plane, I don’t want to go back in there,” I admitted with a grimace while we stared at our would-be aluminum coffin. “But let’s look for clues anywhere around the opening and canvass the plane’s perimeter.”

Nikki nodded and held his torch higher, his gaze remained caught on the space where the right wing used to be. His eyes glistened behind the reflection of the firelight in his broken frames, and I knew then he felt it, too: this overpowering feeling of loss – of relief – and responsibility. The ringlets across his forehead bounced when he tried to shake off the feelings, but the tightening skin around his eyes said it all.

Life brought cuts that healed and cuts that scarred. Our time here was a branding.

Without warning, his palm, smooth and warm, cupped my cheek, and my midnight companion turned his full attention toward me. For the briefest moment, he held me captive with the earnestness of his stare, flecks of sunrise orange reflecting off his glasses in the firelight.

“We’ll do this together, baby girl.” His tone held none of his flirtatious bravado. It was soft and soothing. A promise as his thumb stroked the length of my cheek. “No matter what we find, we will face it together, alright?”

Baby girl.

Butterflies flew through the pit of my stomach to dance with the anxiety and panic already having a party.

I could have done this alone—I would have done this alone—terrified and traumatized, but too stubborn to listen. Yet Nikki hadn’t hesitated. I trusted him. I could count on him.

“We do this together,” I repeated, unable to break eye contact as my breath skirted over his palm. His eyes fluttered closed and he pursed those beautifully pouty lips together as if steeling himself for our next move. His grip on my jaw tightened, then he pulled me forward, pressing those warm lips against my forehead. The contact was delicate, reassuring—hot.

Another branding.

“Right,” he muttered, shaking his head as if warding off a trance.

He lowered his hand and held it out for me to grasp. I took it, the action less for practicality now than for comfort. I drew in breath after deep lung-cleansing breath to lose the memory of every single zombie movie I’d ever watched, but the scent of scorched earth and ozone made it impossible.

Our footprints didn’t make a dent in the crumbling dirt, but concentrated dust piles in small circles every few feet showed signs of hopefully human activity. I kept my head down to the ground, determined not to miss anything, while keeping alert to any unfamiliar sounds, unable to shake the zombie sentiment.

If I were Jamie, hurt and confused, where would I head? Had he thought he was the only survivor and panicked? Maybe he had headed up the river on the other side?

We crept toward the rear of the plane, me on the inside, Nikki protectively hovering on the outside against the dark woods. Unidentifiable critters skittered across the silty ground beneath our feet, their black bodies reflecting off the clay-red backdrop.

Approaching the tail, a dark, wet spot in the earth caught my eye. I scanned its surroundings, then upward over the plane’s hull. A bloodied palm print glared like an evil beacon against the metal.

“Shit,” I hissed, drawing Nikki’s attention. His gaze snapped up to the spot I couldn’t tear one eye away from, and his lips pursed into a thin line.

“Let’s go.” He waved me forward with the torch. Sure enough, about four feet away, a similar imprint, like the side of a fist dipped in red ink, sat on top of the silver at a similar height. None of the survivors in our care had come around this far; I was sure of it.

My pulse resumed its preferred pace of galloping horses. My feet tried to keep up with its stride, anxious to see if our friend was alive, hurt, or worse.

Another imprint, a little farther away this time.

We rounded the rear to the opposite side of the plane and my heartbeat came to an abrupt stop, seizing in my chest with a single squeeze. The single oversized passenger door of the rear-entry plane had two bloodied handprints in their full form against its hull, as if someone had tried to push it upward with its manual emergency release.

Not someone. Jamie. Only Jamie would know how to do that.

Our Cessna’s rear door, which served as dual access to both the passenger cabin and the cargo hold, was open, lifted by several inches on its hinges. The acrid scents of metal and singed plastic wafted out of it, and the slowly decomposing bodies inside likely added to the mix in the intense moisture and heat.

It hadn’t been open when I got the passengers off the plane. I would have noticed an air gap when I’d unbuckled Nikki. Which meant it had been opened after we’d left.

Had Jamie stumbled down the riverbed and come back, trying to get access to the luggage in the cargo hold, still thinking we were all dead on the other side?