The bedroom is dark, illuminated only by the steady glow of the computer's power indicator. The door swings open, bumping against the dresser with a thud. An older, fit man fills the doorway and flips the switch, illuminating the room.
“Up and at ’em, Sam. We’ve got to go.”
Sam grumbles and pulls the blankets over her head to shield herself from the glare. Harry steps over a pair of discarded jeans, yanks the covers back, and gives her a gentle shake.
She reaches for the covers, desperate to reclaim her cocoon of warmth. “Grr, Dad.”
“You're the one who wanted to go with me.” Harry picks up a book from the floor and glances toward the crowded shelves. “There’s a plane down on the mountain.” He sets it beside an open drawing pad on her desk. “And when we get back, you are organizing this room.”
“Come on. I'm an adult now.”
A grin spreads across his face as he places a stray pencil into its holder. “I am well aware of your actual age. That doesn’t discount the rules you set up.” He bumps a half-open drawer shut with his hip. “If I recall, it was something along the lines of barely passing for seventeen, still living at home, and not paying rent.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Yes, I am.” He chuckles. “The devil is in the details, as you always say.”
Sam pushes herself upright. “Yeah, yeah. Mini-lecture done. I’m coming. A little privacy, please?”
“I'll be outside warming up the truck. Don't take too long.” He leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Sam slides out of bed and snatches a thermal top hanging from an open drawer, stretching into it. She retrieves a long-sleeved T-shirt from the floor, gives it a sniff, approves, and pulls it on.
A shiver sends Sam scrambling for her long underwear. She works her way into them, then squeezes into her pants, giving a little jump to fasten the button. Dropping onto the edge of the bed, she pulls on a pair of thick wool socks. She excavates her hoodie from beneath the pillow, feeds her arms into the sleeves, and pulls it on while making her way to the mirror.
Sam lifts the crystal's leather cord from the corner of her mother's framed photograph. “Miss you, Mom.” She passes it over her head and tucks the crystal between the layers.
She tries to do something with her hair sticking out in every direction. Her hands pat at it, but it just stands up with a mind of its own. “Why do I care? It’s not like the snow goblins or cranky pines are going to comment.” She reaches for her well-worn baseball cap and settles it on, sliding her fingers over her ears to smooth her short blonde hair into place. “Dad might.”
Sam emerges from the cabin, switching off the lights behind her. Only the porch light remains on. She heads toward Harry's battered GMC, its panels a patchwork of colors and a magnetic Search and Rescue placard on the door. A trailer loaded with two snowmobiles and secured gear is hitched behind it. Sam climbs into the passenger seat and shuts the door, fastening her seat belt. “Present.”
Harry lifts a large metal travel mug. “Coffee. Strong enough to wake up my navigator.”
She accepts it and inhales the rising steam. “Yeah, yeah.” Taking a sip, she reaches for the folded maps on the dashboard. “Coordinates and light?”
He unzips his coat, retrieves a scrap of paper covered in handwritten scribbles, and hands it to her before switching on the dome light.
Sam yawns. “Why can't people have emergencies on a real people schedule?”
Harry puts the truck into gear and starts out. “That's not the way it works.”
He keeps up a brisk pace along the snow-covered road while Sam checks the coordinates against the map.
They slow at a fork in the road. Sam looks up. One route has been plowed, while the other climbs into the trees beneath a blanket of untouched snow.
“Which way is going to be faster?”
“If we go around to the bridge? Too long. How they came in—unstable mountain—could already be down.” That's not where you need to go. Her finger moves across the map. “Then where?”
“What?” Harry looks to the map. “Severin's Creek? That's quite distant.”
“I'm still thinking. Something isn't right with the coordinates. I can't put my finger on it—well, I am—but it doesn't feel right.” She looks toward the incline. “Lock in the hubs? You already did. Weight's good. We'll be okay.”
Harry turns the wheel. “Trusting the Sam gut.”
“Stop using me that way.”
“I'm not.”
But he is. “I suppose rescuing people is better than being used as a mule for moving secrets.”
“I didn't—”
Her mind floods with routes and dangers. She closes her eyes and presses her hands against them, willing it to stop. It doesn't. On an exhale, she extends her arms out. “We're past that. Bygones. A thousand ways it didn't work.”
“Not the positivity I'm used to.”
“Fine.” She traces the route with her finger. “Severin's Creek. Snowmobiles from there. We pack the last half-mile or so. That should keep us clear of an avalanche, or on top of it if it's already down. We get stuck? They die if they're not already. A plane at that altitude coming down like that? Chances of survival are… uh… not good.”
“There you go, using information that wasn't provided in the dispatch.”
Sam takes a sip of her coffee. “Letting that go. You trust me too much.”
“Probably. But in my defense, you wouldn’t guide us this way without reason. Nope!” Harry catches Sam opening her mouth to object. “You don't know what it is. Neither do I. But I know to trust it.”
“I wish I could.”
“If you want to bounce it off me? I'm good with that. If not, the same.”
“Not. If that's okay?”
“It is”
The sun rises as they spot the wreckage. A plume of smoke drifts from the front section, buried in a crater to the west. The tail lies farther east, higher on the ridge.
"I'll head up the ridge," Harry says. "You take the front. Call it in and radio if you find anyone."
"Got it. Be careful. It doesn't look stable up here."
“I’m the one who's supposed to worry about you.” Harry raises a hand. “Don’t even try, Young One.”
“Warning stands. I see more than you do.”
Sam approaches the wreckage, finding no signs of life or movement. She unstraps her snowshoes, ducking to avoid the sharp edges of the shredded fuselage. She clears away chunks of snow until she can get her flashlight inside.
"Anyone alive in here?"
A female voice responds between labored breaths, “One.”
Sam continues digging. "Hang in there. We'll get you out. How many were on the plane?"
“Five. The aviators are dead. The other two, I'm afraid I don't know.”
"You're sure they're dead?"
"Yes."
“The other two, would they be in the back part of the plane?”
“It is where I saw them last.”
Sam frees her radio. “One survivor reports five aboard. Two dead up front, two unaccounted for, last seen toward the tail.”
The radio crackles. “Copy.”
“My name is Sam, yours?” She stops when there's no response. “You still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Nothing of consequence.”
Sam gets her flashlight through the opening. Against the cabin wall, the survivor is trapped, a channel cleared around her with a slope of compacted snow between them.
“Anything broken, bleeding? Immediate concern?”
“I can walk out of here once you dig me out.”
“Anything broken, bleeding? Immediate concern?”
“I can walk out of here once you dig me out.”
Wow, insufferable much? “Okay. I didn't catch your name.”
“I did not provide it. Do get on with your job.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
The radio crackles. “Sam, two alive here. One able to walk, the other we're going to need the sled and a medevac.”
“Calling it in.” She rolls onto her back, fumbling with the radio through her gloves. She pulls one off with her teeth and switches channels. “Dispatch, Rescue One on scene. Two dead, three survivors. One critical. Pack unstable, advise pickup at the fork of Severin's Creek.”
“Copy, Rescue One.”
Sam tucks the radio back into her pocket and continues to dig. When the hole is big enough, she pushes her pack through, then shimmies in behind it, sliding down to the woman. Something about her strikes familiar. Sam runs the flashlight across the woman's eyes.
She jerks her head to the side. “I told you I was fine!”
“Actually, you said ‘nothing of consequence.’ But given you've been buried for hours, shock and hypothermia top the list. Not to mention concussion or internal bleeding.”
“I am quite familiar with the symptoms.”
Sam clears more debris around her. “Been in situations like this before?”
“Not this one.”
“Something similar? First plane crash for me.”
“How fortunate.”
“Can't say I'm fond of flying myself. The whole dynamics. Don't trust it. Wouldn't catch me anywhere near an airplane, and this”—she rolls her eyes around—“is why. You're probably thinking the same thing now, huh?”
“I assure you, I am not.”
“Don't worry, it's not far to the snowmobiles. They say sleds are uncomfortable, but they're not.” Sam clears another handful of snow. “So, the guys in the tail, family? Friends? Co-workers? Acquaintances? Do you know them?” Sam sits up and runs her arm across her forehead. She pulls off her other glove, unzips her coat, and tugs at the collar of her hoodie. The crystal slips free. “Layers. They're awesome until they're not.” She waves her hands. “Cold until you're hot.”
“Yes, I—” Her eyes fall to the crystal. “—know them.”
“Ah, she speaks again. Anyone I can have Dispatch contact? Let them know you're okay?” Sam wiggles the radio. “In contact, one button press. Just need a name…but you're not sharing.”
“No.”
“Right. Nerve poking's not my thing. But speaking of…something's been nagging at me. Have we met before?” A loud bang echoes through the canyon, followed by a second. Sam grabs her radio and hits the button. “Dad? Come back! Dad?!” A low rumble answers. “Avalanche!” Sam throws herself over the woman.
Seconds later, snow slams into the side of the fuselage, rolling it down the slope like a twig in a rushing stream. Their bodies slam against the interior, bones snapping as limbs bend and contort at unnatural angles, tossed about like rag dolls.
The woman smashes face-first into a protruding piece of window. Sam's arms and legs fight for purchase within the revolving space. She crashes against the roof with a hard crack.
Sam blinks. There's only a foot of breathing room between her and the remains of the cabin. She turns her head. The woman is inches away, upright, buried from the chest down. Blood cakes the left side of her face, and her hand is moving toward it.
“Owe. Uh…ma'am? Miss? Please, say you're okay.”
The woman responds with what Sam can only distinguish as a whimper.
“I'll take that as a no. Bad?”
“Dreadful…” She turns her head toward the dull glow of the flashlight, revealing the extent of the wound.
“Uh, yeah, that's Halloween-horror-mask-overdone-with-blood, bad. Try not to move, and I'll see if I can, uh…”
Seconds pass.
The woman's hand slides toward Sam's face. “You still there?”
“Yeah…I can't seem to…um, move or…feel anything.”
“Hold still.” The woman's hand searches along Sam's body. “As far as I can tell, you're not bleeding, though I cannot be certain. Is it completely dark in here, or—”
“Flashlight visible, but your left eye, it's totally shredded, and…I'm guessing blind.”
“I suspected as much.” The woman's hand moves out of Sam's sight. “Can you feel that?”
Sam strains to see what she's doing. “Should I?”
“Don't move unless it's necessary.”
“Doesn't that hurt?” Sam asks.
“I have a rather high tolerance for pain.”
“Damn woman, I'd say so! If that were me, I'd be crying like a baby.”
“Crying doesn't solve anything.” The woman reaches behind Sam's neck, feeling around before letting out a sigh.
“What is it?”
“You're not going to be any use to me.”
“Translate it into what it means for me?”
“You won't be able to get me free before I bleed out. And you'll freeze to death long before anyone finds us.”
“Yeah? Well, sorry about that. If it's any comfort, you are not bleeding that much. You've got movement. Dig yourself out.”
“My face is not what is of concern.”
“How can it not be? Are you on some kind of crazy drug?”
“Whatever has me pinned has most likely ruptured my femoral artery.”
“Yeah? Well, that sucks. What about me?”
The woman probes behind Sam's shoulder. “Feels like a clean fracture.”
“Of what? My spine, huh? Are you sure?” Sam waits. “You know you can answer. It's not like the news could be any worse than not knowing and letting my imagination run amok, 'cause I have quite the vivid one.”
“Ignorance can be bliss.”
“Yeah? Really? I don't think so. I prefer knowledge; I absorb it like a sponge. Where there is a will and the know-how, there is a way; you just have to figure it out.”
“You would if—are you having trouble breathing?”
“Not really.”
The woman checks Sam's pulse. “Is your satchel close at hand?”
“You mean my pack? No, not that I can see or that you could reach. But don't worry, there is a beacon in my coat for these sorts of emergencies. There was already another team heading this way. Besides, my dad is out there.”
“Your father is dead. As are we.” Her hand moves to the leather cord of Sam's necklace.
“No, he's not! He's a survivor, just like me. All I have to do is wait for him to find me.”
“The naivety of youth. Any friends of yours will be far off course.”
“What are you talking about? Oh, your not-family, not-friends, not-co-workers who crashed with you?”
“Yes.”
Sam searches her memory, trying to pin down what she's missing. “There's something you're not saying about this whole mess, dodging at every turn.”
“The coordinates you were given? Do they match the location you came to?”
“Uh…now that I think about it, no. I just trusted what I knew.”
“Huh.”
“You a doctor or something?”
“Once upon a time, you could say I was.”
“Kind of young, aren't you? I don't mean that in a bad way, just, you know, doctors have all those years of medical school and…”
Her hand traces along the necklace's cord. “I'm a lot older than I look.”
“Yeah, kinda know the feeling. The same could be said about me.” Sam studies her. “It's driving me crazy. You see, I have this perfect memory, and I know I've seen you somewhere. I remember everything—I mean everything!”
“Eidetic memory,” the woman says.
“Yeah, so if you know what that is, you understand why that's impossible.”
“Not impossible. We have crossed paths, just not in your lifetime.” Her finger caresses the crystal, and it throws prismatic light across the snow. “Do you know what this is? What it can do for you?”
“It's just a rock on a necklace.”
“It's more than that.”
“Okay, it's sentimental. It's the only thing I have of my mom's. It's not even the real deal—some kind of synthetic knockoff my mom kept in a cheap jewelry box.”
“You really don't know?”
“Apparently not. It's important to me, okay? While I can't stop you, I can ask you kindly to keep your paws off.”
“There is assistance to be had here for both of us, but I need you to trust me.”
“Trust you? I don't know you from a hole in the wall.” Sam considers the woman, who waits without another word. “Fine. Tell me your name.”
The woman digs into the snow at her left side. “That is what it takes to earn your trust?”
“What are you doing?”
Her hand emerges from the snow, covered in blood and holding a small piece of flexible material. She brings it toward Sam's face. Sam flinches. “Can you see this?”
“Yeah…black thingy. Looks like a fridge magnet. Though why you'd think it's somehow worthy of trade…oh, never mind. Continue.”
“There is a series of numbers and letters on one side, lower corner. Can you see them?”
“Kind of hard. It's black, and it's darker than shit in here.” Sam squints. “Yeah, I think so. Turn it clockwise 180 degrees.”
The woman rotates it and wipes her thumb along the edge. “Make sure you get all 38 digits.”
“Your blood and snow are all over it…Doesn't matter. I'll remember it like a picture. What I don't understand is why it's important right now?”
“They can't find this on me, dead or alive. You got it?”
“Yeah, trapped in my noggin' with all the other useless information. What is it?”
The woman struggles to bend the card until it snaps. She feels for both pieces and breaks them again. “It'll be fine if they find it on you.” She finds Sam's pocket and places the debris inside. “It'll all make sense to them then.”
“Something important, I take it?”
“Yes. You will comprehend everything shortly. You need to believe what you are feeling and experiencing. It has to be protected at all costs, including my life and yours if necessary.”
“What are you talking about? That card thingy? It must have some important information on it for it to be worth that much, willing to die for it and all. But you broke it, so no one can use it, well unless they're uber-technical, which they probably are, but even then—”
“You always talk this much?”
“When I'm nervous or in pain—not feeling anything other than a cold nose, so nerves. Justified, given we're both gonna die up here, and you're rambling on about gibberish and a little black card with strings of numbers on it, making me remember them because what? Can't you? I get it if it's a combination or, better yet, a bank account.”
“No.”
“Too long, even if it were more than one with the pertinent institutions. Not-so-reputable ones? Uh…no again. Decryption code, but no one is dumb enough actually to write it on the device…I've been around. That's just unprofessional and such.”
“It is.”
“No, it has to be something more. Keycode fits. Something happens to you or me. Someone else finds it who has the other half, connect-e-mundo. Sense is made, key unlocked, super-secret information is provided. Yes?”
“Possibly.”
“And that right there is what we call a ‘yes,’ but you're too…whatever—insert your choice of words there—stuck up, stubborn, self-absorbed, protective, uptight, so-on and so forth, to admit it. But I hit it head-on. You know it, I know it, and thus, I must ask, why do you defend the castle when the walls have already fallen?”
The woman takes a breath. “It is of little consequence in the grander scheme of things that could happen, but it is a connection that could lead them to my involvement. The other…I can't explain. You must be accepting and open for this to work.”
“For what to work? You're not making any sense here. Probably due to the blood loss and all.”
“No, I am clear of mind and thought.”
Sam is about to respond when a surge of emotion from the woman stops her. She holds her questions, giving the woman a chance to continue.
“I have not spoken my true name nor identified with it since I came to the realization of what I was and what I was to become.”
The emotion subsides into an unsettling calm. The hairs on the back of Sam's neck rise. She draws a breath, expecting difficulty, but it comes easily. Something passes between them, a connection she cannot explain. She feels the woman's desperate plea for help as clearly as if she'd spoken it.
“Uh, what…I uh…” Sam stutters.
The woman closes her hand around the crystal and squeezes. “This might not go as expected.” Her voice trembles. “My true and given name is Amanda.”
“What are you—” A warm wave of sensation overwhelms Sam. “Expecting?”
The crystal begins to glow. Streams of color curl around Sam and close into a dome. The light builds to near-blinding intensity before collapsing back into the crystal, as if sucked into the vacuum of space.
Amanda's hand glows orange with heat, wisps of smoke curling from her skin. She holds on until she can bear no more, then releases the crystal with a long exhale and plunges her hand into the snow.
“Uh…what was that?”
Amanda breaks into a choking cough. “The only way to keep it safe.” Blood spills from her mouth.
Before Sam can respond, pain tears through her, physical and emotional, overwhelming everything.. A scream tears out of her, raw enough to scrape her throat.
An invisible wave erupts outward from the two of them, like the shock wave of a nuclear explosion.