200

You unzip the jumpsuit, feeling the cool damp material that reminds you of fish skin. The soldier's body seems unharmed until you spot dried blood on the right side of his stomach near the rib cage and a skinny pointy white object, which you realize is bone. At the angle it juts through the body, he must have suffered a fall or impact.

As you examine his torso, the soldier's mouth moves, and you fall back and slide along the stone ground. His jaw jitters from the bottom, clanking his teeth together like chopping tiny bones between the incisors. You reach for your pistol and point it low, as a small crablike creature scoots from the soldier's mouth, scuttles down his chest, crawls across the ground, and returns to the river.

"That was intense," Heather states, standing at the jagged edge of the shore.

You stand and walk to the helicopter, intent on investigating it. On the driver's side of the helicopter, you still notice no handle or lock. The outer surface of the cockpit is eggshell smooth, and as you run your hand along the sleek, black exterior, lines trail your fingertips in a layer of dust and sand. In one swipe near the large front windshield, your touch grazes an oval depression on a side seam, and the door juts out an inch and rotates upward under the hum of sliding gears.

You squeeze into the driver's seat, instantly comforted by the soft leather and cushioning though the small cabin size forces you into a contorted position. The side door slides shut, ending with a clamping and clicking noise. Dozens of square and circular displays crowd the dashboard, items labelled altimeters, annunciators, indicators, and selectors. Absently, you flip a few switches but the panel lacks power, remaining dull and dark.

A shadow falls over the cockpit, and you look up from the display board realizing quite a bit of time has passed. You feel around the door and catch another indentation which flips open the driver-side door. As you spin your legs out of the cramped space, you hear a faint beeping from the passenger side. You lie across the seats and follow the monotonous tone, immediately spotting a tiny red light buttoned out from a gunmetal gray box, the size of a thick mobile phone. You unclip the device from the underside of the dashboard. The red light fades and an LCD windows flashes to life, displaying a compass area with the digits NW273.628.

Outside the helicopter, you search along the outside frame for any compartments, though Heather was a step ahead of you.

"There are a few bags of supplies inside: water, tools, first-aid kit, and these weird tubes of toothpaste looking things," she says and tosses one of the satchels to you. Opening the bag, you remove a squeeze tube labelled MUSH, pop the circular cap, and touch your fingertip to the brown toothpaste-like substance flowing out. A pungent odor of stale meat hits your nose, but you tap your tongue with the smallest morsel possible. Though it tastes like cardboard-flavored chalk, you deduce the substance is a food paste. You pack all of it up and sling the backpack over your shoulder along with the rest of your gear. A far-off howl filters through the air. You use this as a sign to move on.