Watcher's Web

Watcher's Web Chapter 3

Semi-darkness, mist, the dark shapes of tree trunks.

Jagged shards of glass jutted out from above the plane’s instrument panel. Pieces of glass also glistened in the pilot’s hair. He hung sideways in his seatbelt, almost a silhouette in the dim light.

Humidity mingled with the overpowering smell of fuel, which clung to Jessica’s skin like a film of grease.

"Are you all right?" asked an unfamiliar voice, deep and male, muffled in the stuffiness of the cabin.

Jessica tore her gaze from the pilot’s limp form and almost screamed. Her eyes, her face, her skin burned like fire. Waves of sparks travelled under the skin of her forearms, swirling over her hands, disappearing under the sleeves of her shirt, where she could feel them running up her shoulders, down her back …

Shit, I can’t move.

"Are you all right, girl?" the hippie repeated. He had an accent she couldn’t quite place, Eastern European maybe. Diffused light cast a silky sheen over his sweaty face.

Yes, Jessica wanted to say but she only managed a tiny nod. Tears stung behind her eyes. She should have cheered and laughed. Still alive. How often did people survive small plane crashes? But she had felt this burning over her skin only once before and that was a time she didn't want to be reminded of. She worried that he could see the sparks. Had people seen the sparks back then, with Stephen Fitzgerald? Her parents had said nothing, and her mother was the first who seen her, after … Shit, shit, shit.

"We’re leaking fuel." The hippie turned the door handle. Branches cracked under the weight of the door as it swung down.

"If you’re not injured, this is not the time to play damsel in distress. Let’s get you out."

He reached for Jessica’s arm. A spark crackled from her elbow, over her lower arm, down her hand to his fingers.

"Shit!" He jerked back, hitting his head on the ceiling. "Damn it, you could have blown us up."

Jessica glared at him. Do you think I can bloody help it?

His eyes were an eerie light blue, lighter than she would have thought  possible. His face was very narrow and his skin looked as soft as that of the year seven boys at St Patrick’s College whose beards hadn’t started growing. 

She muttered, "Sorry."

But the spark had released some of the tension and she could now move her arms, even though it still hurt. She would need to rage at something and release the mist to fix this. Quite a bit of mist, too.

She scrambled over the seat he had vacated and slithered backwards out the door. Every time she put down her knees, a burning pain flowed through her. Sparks flew from her shivering hands, warming metal, fabric or plastic under her touch.

A knee-deep carpet of broken branches littered the forest floor. Her shoes caught on twigs, causing her to stumble on unsteady legs. Out here, the smell of fuel was even stronger.

"Help me, girl. We need to get them out." The hippie flung aside a black bag and a newspaper. The businessman leant against the window, his eyes half-open, blood seeping into the collar of his shirt.

Something clicked in her mind. What was she doing? Forgetting everything she’d learned about first aid? "You’re … you’re not supposed to move injured people. You might make their injuries worse." Her voice sounded high, awfully childish.

He shot her an irritated look. "Yes, if the victim is in a safe place—which we are not. You know how flammable Avgas is? Even a mobile phone signal can set it off. Here—get a move on. Take that somewhere safe." He shoved the first aid kit into her hands.