Tangled Canopy, Jagged Metal

The world tasted of iron and aviation fuel. Mya blinked, a sharp pain lancing behind her eyes, the forest canopy a dizzying swirl of greens and greys above. She lay at an unnatural angle, cheek pressed against cold, damp moss that smelled of decay and pine sap. Her left arm screamed, a dull, insistent ache radiating from her shoulder. Her right leg felt heavy, sluggish, but intact. The wind whistled through fractured aluminium, a mournful sound that was starkly different from the violent tearing she remembered moments before.

She tried to move, a low groan escaping her lips. The air was sharp, biting, carrying the distinct scent of autumn — wet leaves, woodsmoke from some distant, unknown source, and the acrid tang of burnt oil. Bits of insulation, like grey snow, dusted the floor of what was left of the cabin. A jagged branch, thick as her thigh, had impaled itself through the fuselage where a window used to be, now a gaping, hungry maw.

“Jory?” Her voice was a dry rasp, barely audible over the internal ringing in her ears. No immediate response. Fear, cold and sudden, clenched her gut. She pushed herself up, wincing, leaning on her good arm. The ground was soft, boggy, sucking at her boots. She could see more of the plane now: the front section, where the cockpit had been, was twisted, almost folded in on itself like a crushed tin can, half-submerged in a slow-moving stream that hadn't been there moments ago.

A choked sound, a guttural cough, came from within the mangled front. She scrambled forward, ignoring the fire in her shoulder, her boots squelching. The light was fading, the late afternoon sun already dipping below the western ridge, casting long, bruised shadows through the dense Sitka spruce. “Jory!” she called again, louder this time.

He was slumped against the controls, head lolling, a dark stain blossoming on his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, then tried to settle on her. Captain Jory, usually so unflappable, looked utterly broken. His uniform jacket was ripped, revealing a bruised chest. He tried to lift a hand, a weak, trembling gesture. “Mya…?” he mumbled, his voice thick with pain and disorientation.

“I’m here. Are you… can you move?” She knelt beside him, assessing the damage. His breathing was shallow, ragged. He was trapped, his legs seemingly pinned by the bent instrument panel. She didn't dare try to pull him, not yet. First, assess.

“Radio…” Jory coughed, a spray of blood flecking his lips. “Try… the radio.” The words were slurred, but the urgency was clear. Their only lifeline. Her gaze flickered to the console, a mess of snapped wires and shattered displays. Hope was a fragile thing, easily crushed by such a sight.

The Static Horizon

Mya’s hands shook as she reached for the main radio unit. The power switch was jammed, bent at an awkward angle. She struggled, her fingers slick with sweat and something else – oil, perhaps, or Jory’s blood. It finally gave with a sickening snap. A faint, almost imperceptible hum. Progress. She pressed the 'on' button. A tiny green light flickered, then died. She tried again. Nothing. Just the hum.

She hit the emergency frequency. Again, nothing. The hum was still there, a ghost of power, but the display remained dark, the transmit light unresponsive. She cycled through the channels, desperate, a growing dread tightening around her chest. Each click was met with the same dead silence, then a crackle of static, vast and empty, like the wilderness stretching endlessly around them. It was a sound that told her everything: they were alone. Deeply, utterly alone.

Jory must have seen the defeated slump of her shoulders. “No signal?” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. She shook her head, unable to speak. His eyes closed, a flicker of profound despair crossing his face. “Figures. Always happens in the deep buffer. Too far out for a relay.”

The reality hit her with a physical blow. No contact. No rescue, not for hours, perhaps days, until someone noticed they were overdue. And then, finding them in this vast, indifferent landscape… it was a needle in a haystack. Panic threatened to overwhelm her, a cold wave washing over the pain. She took a ragged breath, forcing herself to focus. There was still something else.

“Silas,” she mumbled, her head snapping up. The third passenger. He had been seated just behind Jory. She hadn’t seen him since the impact. “Where is Silas?”

Jory’s eyes opened again, wide with alarm. “He… I don’t know. Behind me, I think.”

Mya pushed herself out of the mangled cockpit, stepping over debris. The back of the plane was even worse, crumpled and buckled. Seats had torn from their moorings, scattered like children’s toys. A chill wind sliced through the broken fuselage. She called his name, her voice louder now, more urgent. “Silas! Silas, can you hear me?”

A small, almost imperceptible groan. It came from beneath the plane’s starboard wing, which had detached and lay half-buried in the soft earth. She crawled towards it, her shoulder protesting with every movement. The wing was heavy, pinning something underneath. With a surge of adrenaline, she dug at the moss and mud with her free hand. She saw a boot, then a trouser leg. Silas.

He was facedown, a small, dark pool spreading slowly beneath his head. His breathing was shallow, barely there. His arm was twisted at an impossible angle. He was unconscious, pinned completely. The wing must weigh hundreds of kilos; she couldn’t move it alone. She looked back at Jory, who was now barely conscious, his head lolling again. There was no help there.

A Faint Percussion

Mya tried to lift the wing, straining every muscle in her body, but it was useless. It didn’t budge. Not even a fraction of an inch. Despair threatened to drown her. She pressed her fingers against Silas’s neck, searching for a pulse. It was faint, thready, but it was there. He was alive. For now. But for how long, exposed to the cold, pinned like this?

The sun was almost gone, the sky a deep indigo streaked with fiery orange. The temperature had plummeted. A heavy mist began to rise from the boggy ground, swirling around the wreckage like a shroud. She had to think. What could she do? Jory was too injured to help, Silas was trapped, and the radio was dead. They had no way out, no way to signal. The overwhelming scale of the wilderness pressed in, a silent, implacable adversary.

She huddled against a relatively intact section of the fuselage, trying to conserve body heat, shivering uncontrollably. Every breath was a sharp intake of cold, damp air. Her pain was a dull roar now, a constant companion. She pulled a torn blanket from a scattered bag, wrapping it tightly around herself, though it did little against the gnawing chill. Her gaze swept over the dark, impenetrable wall of trees that surrounded them, the shadows deepening, stretching like grasping fingers.

And then she heard it.

A sound. Faint at first, almost imperceptible over the blood pounding in her ears, but distinct. A rhythmic thumping. *Thump. Thump. Thump.* Not the wind. Not an animal. It was too regular, too deliberate. It seemed to come from deeper within the forest, from the direction where the sun had just set. Her heart leapt, a frantic bird against her ribs. Hope, thin and dangerous, pierced through the gloom.

Could it be a search party? Someone who had heard the crash, against all odds? But what kind of thumping sound would that be? It wasn’t an engine, not a helicopter she recognised. It was… deeper. More elemental. Her breath hitched, not from pain, but from a sudden, cold apprehension. The distant, rhythmic thump pulsed, not a part of the wind, not a part of the dying engine. It was an intrusion, a deliberate beat in the heart of the untouched wild, and Mya knew, with a chill that went deeper than the autumn air, that they were not alone. But was it rescue, or something else entirely?