T he entrance to the shell of the plane is a few yards beyond Margaret’s hand. Against the hard-falling snow, it sits like a gigantic metal sculpture, unveiled only for my eyes. I move slowly and assuredly through the snow until my hands find the cold metal. I work my way around to a jagged hole once occupied by the plane’s tail, entering what was formally the entire middle section of the plane. There’s another gaping void on the other side where the door to the pilot’s cabin used to be.
The plane must have broken into three parts: the tail, with the bathroom and me; the body, which I’m now standing in; and the pilot’s cabin, wherever that may be. I walk the aisle and stop at a man who is still strapped into his seat. He is ice cold, eyes frozen open with the dull glow of death. I look and check the others quickly. The few who remain strapped into their seats are dead. The others are outside, dismembered. No movement, no life.
Then I turn to look at my row and both seats are gone, just ripped out. They were probably thrown because they appear to have been situated right where the end of the plane tore from the middle section. That’s how Paul survived.
A big gust pushes through the shell and I realize how cold I am and how little shelter the cabin offers me since it’s wide open on either end. I look around. Bags are everywhere. Books, toiletries, clothes. The cargo bay has been ripped open, and luggage is strewn across the snow.
Then I see the first piece of good news I’ve had since finding Paul. It’s the green duffle bag the climbers jammed under the seats in front of us. I’d bet my life it is full of hiking stuff.
I try to grab its handle, but my hands are cold and getting a firm grip is difficult. Instead, I try looping my elbow around and pulling back like a mule. It won’t budge and the zipper is wedged tight against the seats. I move myself to the front of the next row and sit on the floor. With my back braced against the seats, I push against the bag with my feet. It nudges forward.
I get up and go back to the other side of the seats. I look at the seat and then pull off the seat cushion, remove the life jacket, and underneath I can see the zipper of the bag. I stand on top of the bag and stamp it down as much as I can. I walk around to the back and I spend a minute blowing on my right hand and fingers until they feel warmer. I grasp the handle at the end of the bag with my right hand and wrap my left around for support. I yank, and it moves, but only an inch. I try again by leveraging my feet against the seats in front of me and push with my legs while pulling with my arms. Nothing.
I laugh for a second. You have to laugh, I tell myself.
I stand up and assess. I have to get inside this damn bag. I kneel and bite down hard on the zipper tag, niggling my teeth against the little hole on the end. Then, like a dog, I pull the zipper as hard as I can with my teeth. For a moment I feel no movement, no give, but then the zipper loosens and gives an inch. I start yanking and yanking against the opening until zip! It moves six inches, then a foot. I grab the two ends with my hands and pull it open as wide as I can.
I reach in. Bingo. I pull out a pair of good gloves and a snow mask and put them on. Suddenly, I’m feeling a little buoyancy.
I take out several pairs of long underwear and wool socks and place them on the seat. I slip off my boots and peel off my snow-wet jeans. The cold wind stings my bare legs, which are blotchy and red. I pull on the first pair of long underwear, then the socks and a baggy pair of snow pants. I tuck a second pair of long johns and a dry pair of jeans for Paul underneath my coat.
I pull out a wind shell that I quickly put on.
Underneath, I find a sweater and a stash of energy bars. I tuck them down my shirt and zip up the shell.
There’s undoubtedly more stuff in the rest of the plane.
I walk down the aisle opening the overhead luggage bins. I pull down what I assume is a sleeping bag brought by one of the climbers. I slide my arm under the bungee cords wrapped around the bag and strap it across my back like a makeshift knapsack. I open the next overhead bin. I leap out of the way as luggage falls out. I start popping open the bags one by one. Hats, gloves. Pants. Sweaters. Wool socks! I grab three pairs and I stuff the extra gloves and hat into the pockets of my shell. I pull out a scarf and wrap it around my neck. I find a bag of chips I pocket for later.
Halfway down the aisle, I find another one of the climber’s bags and I pull it down. It’s stuffed with ropes and all sorts of other, unrecognizable gear. I loop a coil of rope around my shoulder. I look for a knife or any other sharp objects, but there’s nothing.
The yellow bag, I think. Find the yellow bag.