Tailspin

by Clara Stokes

 

George watched in awe of the swooping and twirling of the plane far up in the clouds. The glinting of the sun off the metal frame would disappear for a moment before plummeting down again towards the fair where everyone had gathered to watch. George wasn’t there, sitting with his parents and Sue Ann. 

No, he was working. That’s what he told himself as he sat out in the sun, on his father’s faded yellow tractor parked out in the middle of the field with one ankle bouncing on a knee and his elbow digging a groove into his lower thigh. He rested his chin in his open palm as he watched the spectacle. The plane’s engine roared—the pressure blanketing his ears even though he was so far away—into another twist followed by a roll back down to earth, clouds streaming from the tips of its wings. He closed his eyes when the distant shouts of glee echoed across the farm. He could almost imagine being there, sitting next to Sue Ann. But they weren’t talking right now. She said she needed some time. George didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. 

He rolled his head to the side so his ear lay across his fingers. He played with the fraying ends of his jeans with his free hand and listened to the engine of the plane, consistent and oppressive. The sound was numbing, rattling his mind. It was almost relaxing. 

George groaned, his brows furrowing when his mind refused to focus on the pirouetting spectacle in the sky. His thoughts kept wandering back to Sue Ann. He was beyond frustrated. He’s been looking forward to the fair with her and his family. George huffed, his breath hot across his palm. He missed her a lot, or he thought he did. She’d said that he didn’t love her the way she loved him, which was bullshit. He buried his face in his hand again. How the hell did she know how he felt? His head was starting to hurt as much as his heart. 

George knew he was being dramatic, sulking out in the back of his family's ranch instead of facing her cold indifference and his mother’s insistent prodding. She’d always liked Sue; always talked about how cute their kids were going to be. I don’t really want kids with someone who doesn’t think I love her, George pouted into his sweaty palm, the summer sun hot on his neck.

A crack startled him so badly that he almost fell from his seat. His head whipped upwards. The plane was spinning only without all the grace and fluidity it had been showing off for the past half hour. It spun wildly, the rudders flapping uselessly. George could only stare in horror, mouth agape as he watched it plummet. Screams from the fair fell on his deaf ears, ringing overtaking him as he watched. The plane was in a nosedive now. It rocketed towards the ground. George brought a hand to his mouth. A loud pop sounded, and the plane hit the ground with a boom. 

He could see the immediate smoke and fire bursting up into the air, chunks of rock and debris scattering into the wind. The pilot’s chair swung as the chute opened, catching the breeze and barely slowing their free-fall before sinking behind the flames. He could hear sirens starting up, the emergency horns blaring across the county. He spun to start up his tractor, almost falling off and onto the ground in his haste. Turning the key, he cursed, panicking as the engine sputtered and stalled. Over his shoulder, he watched the sky darken, the steady plume of smoke thickening and rising.

Finally, his tractor roared to life; loose bolts—rusted through—rattled around. Spinning the wheel sharply, he shot off towards the inferno just around the bend of woods as fast as the old machine could go. 

He could feel the heat of the blaze even before he made it past the last few trees. Sweat ran down his face and stuck his shirt to his back uncomfortably. He had to stop his tractor when the torridity started to burn his eyes, leaving it running in fear that it might not start up again. 

The heat made an almost visible barrier around the wreckage. The haze wavering the air around the fire that bled through the gaps of twisted metal and cracked tempered glass. George’s eyebrows were singeing.

As carefully as he could when his heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest, he skirted around the debris. He was looking for the pilot, praying the wind held and kept the smoke funneling upwards. His head was already spinning without the air trying to smother him as well.

“Hey! Is anyone here?” It wasn’t so much of a question as George was just trying to find them, to see if they were near. Nothing. Only the crackling of flames that were showing no sign of dying out and the groaning of metal as it overheats. That and the still distant sirens. 

George cursed when his ankle gave out on a rock half buried in the dirt. It smarted angrily when he put pressure on it but he kept walking. There, on the opposite side of the wrecked plane where he’d left his tractor, lay the ejected seat. The parachute flapped lazily towards the tree line, the breeze gently musing it without actually catching.

Faintly limping, George rushed over to where he hoped the pilot lay breathing. They had ejected so low to the ground. He would be hard-pressed to say it had been even a second before the plane made contact with the ground. 

Praying, George reached out, hand gripping the harsh metal lining the top of the backrest.

"Fuck!" he gritted his teeth at the blistering heat of the chair and ripped his hand away. He winced; his palm felt like it was already blistering. He looked away from his inflamed skin and back up at the pilot. They were slumped, their visor obscuring most of their face despite being cracked. 

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” His southern drawl rushed and muddled; words heavy with dread. He fell to his knees by the side of the seat. Nausea welled up in his throat when he glanced at the state of the pilot’s leg. Both were visibly cut up—and almost definitely bruised—but the leg closest to George was facing a direction the human body wasn’t meant to face. The flight suit was rucked up, torn, and seeped in dark blood. 

“Fuck,” George rasped, his throat dry, fumbling for his buckle. Bone’s supposed to be on the inside, he mused thinly. Looping the belt around the pilot’s upper thigh, he quietly thanked God for the basic medical courses he’d taken in school. The pilot thrashed weakly and shifted when George pulled the makeshift tourniquet tight. Their leg spurted blood across George’s hands and onto the ground. George heaved out a held breath, feeling lightheaded, his heart suffocating him from where it fluttered in his throat. I’m going to throw up. Looking away from his patch job, he quickly began checking over the pilot for any visible injuries, which was difficult considering the baggy flight suit and harness they were strapped into. The helmet and face mask too.

His eyes caught on the call sign painted on the front of their helmet. Barrena. Their nameplate, half obscured by the strap crossing their shoulder, read Morales. George reached for the latch of their harness, struggling with the unfamiliar design. He straightened when the buckles gave, opening with a quiet snap, and lurched forward when Morales slumped without the support holding them upright. 

The sudden movement tore a whine from the pilot, their hands reaching up to fumble against George’s grip on their shoulders.

“Hey, it‘s okay,” George comforted, trying to hold them still and not agitate their leg. “Calm down!”

He could hear Morales’s accelerated breaths. How their panting sounded pressured. He could guess their ribs were either cracked or, more likely, broken.

“Morales!” The pilot jolted, hands fighting against his grip. George could feel their eyes on him despite being hidden by the visor, “It’s okay, you’re okay!”

They sat frozen, hands fisted on his wrists, clenching and unclenching in time with their gasps. They had to be exhausted. Evident by the way that they could barely support the helmet on their head.

Quietly, George repeated, “You’re okay.” He smoothed out the fabric of the flight suit that had gotten rucked up in the struggle. The suit fibers caught on his burned palms, “People are coming to help you, you’re going to be okay.”

Carefully and painfully aware of Morales’s mangled leg, George shuffled closer and into a squat. The pilot’s hands loosened from where they’d been gripping his wrists and shifted to wrap around George’s shoulders, fingers grasping at his sweaty shirt. 

“Hey, I’m gonna move you know, ‘kay?” Morales’s helmet ground against his collarbone when they nodded. Slowly, George lifted, pulling him away from the ruined seat. They jolted, suddenly, when George went to put the pilot down, almost free of the twisted metal. Their head was jerked harshly to the side, back towards the seat. An air tube connected the pilot’s mask to the chair, pulled taught and shredded from the impact. 

George cursed under his breath, glancing down at the trembling body in his arms—well, all he could see was the dusty visor pressed against the skin of his neck. As gently as he could, George lowered both of them to the ground with the limited space the mask tube allowed. He needed to get the helmet off.

Morales’s head fell against the ground with a thud once they were situated. Their arms still laid loosely on George’s shoulders causing him to lean over their prone form, hand propped up by the pilot’s far shoulder. 

“Hey, Morales.” They tilted their head slightly, panting from the exertion, “I'm gonna take off your helmet.” He paused, waiting for a response, “Is that okay?”

The only indication that the pilot was listening was the almost reluctant drop of their arms from around George to where they folded protectively around their midsection. Probably hiding blackening skin. And burns if the crispy state of their flight suit was an omen.

George moved to steady himself next to Morales, his knees carefully scooting towards their side, mindful of their injuries, so he could lift his hand from the dirt. After a moment, he reached under the pilot’s chin to unclasp the buckle there. Finally, the latch came loose, despite the vexing unfamiliarity that frustrated George. Gently, he shifted the helmet up and off the other, wincing as it dragged against their face.

Morales’s unsteady breathing was clearer without the plexiglass covering separating them. His olive skin was a disconcerting pallor, gray underneath the blood running from his hairline and a broken nose. His curly hair was dark and matted to his skull, whether from sweat or blood, George wasn’t sure.

“Morales, you still with me?” Confused eyes squinted up at him, probably blinded by the Texas sun. A fresh rivulet of blood dripped down to his brow, running along it to drip by his ear. George frowned; the helmet must have agitated an injury from the crash. He ran his hand across the bangs plastered to the man's brow, ignoring how it came back tacky, in search of the wound. Worry filled him more when the source eluded him. 

The man gritted his teeth with a low cry, pinching his eyes shut. George could hear the sirens growing closer, finally. Sweat ran uncomfortably down the side of his face, disappearing down his neck into his shirt. It prickled his skin as if ants were crawling around beneath his clothes. 

They sat in exhausted silence for what felt like an eternity, the rumbling of the fire behind them petering and dying out; yet, still smoking slightly. George numbly cataloged all of the man’s injuries that he’d found so far: the broken nose, obvious concussion if the dilated eyes are to be attributed, barely clotted head wound, numerous cuts all over his exposed skin, wet-sounding breathing and general discomfort of his midsection, and—George was nauseous even thinking about it—the bone sticking out of his leg. The belt wasn’t going to last. He was terrified watching the growing pool of crimson soak into the dry, cracked ground. What am I supposed to do, he lamented. What he wouldn’t give to go back to his tantrum, alone and pouting about some girl he’d only been seeing for a few months. His ankle and hands throbbed with his pulse.

A wheeze and brush of fingers brought George back from his mind. He glanced down at Morales, blinking away the dryness from staring off into the tree line. The blood was drying on his face, flaking in some places and clotting where it’d pooled beneath his eye and in his hair. He had one hand still gripping tightly to his flight suit, just below his sternum. The other pawed weakly at George’s leg, chewed nails visible through torn gloves scrapping on the fabric of his dirty jeans. 

George lifted his trembling hand and clasped it between his as firmly as he dared, “Hey, it‘s gonna be okay. Do you hear the police?” Morales's eyes briefly blinked up at him, deliriously, “They’re coming to help you, do you hear them?” George’s lips pulled tight as he peeked down at the pilot’s leg again. The skin not painted red was turning a dark purple. 

Morales's hand stopped trembling a few minutes later, his eyes shut again, and his breathing slowed from the painful near hyperventilation he’d been suffering through for so long as if he couldn’t get enough air. George’s alarmed attempts to wake him failed and the insistent wailing of the approaching police cruisers and ambulance did nothing to help. By the time the deputies and EMTs pulled to a stop beside the smoldering wreckage and rushed a gurney out to where they sat, Morales’s sputtering breathing had slowed, and George’s voice tore at his throat with his cries for the pilot to wake up.

 

The ambulance’s tires spin uselessly for a moment, throwing dirt and debris into the air, before speeding off across the field. George could hear people trying to talk to him where he sat on the ground, asking him what happened and who he was, but all he could feel was the blood coating his skin and the puddle seeping into the heat-baked ground under his knees. His tears drying under the Texas sun.