The Heaviest Thing

The flash came first, a bright rip in the dull winter light. Then the noise, not a sound so much as a physical shove, a fist punching the air from his lungs. Alex’s world went sideways. He felt the ground leap up, hard and unforgiving, slamming into his back. His head hit something else. Not snow. Something sharp and unyielding, then it was all white, then black.

The ringing started. A high, sustained whine behind his eyes, inside his skull. It vibrated through his teeth. He tried to open his eyes, but gritty dust stung them shut. He blinked, hard. Once. Twice. The world swam back into focus, a blurry, charcoal mess. Smoke. He tasted it – ash and something acrid, metallic, like old blood.

His ears were still screaming. He couldn't hear anything else. No wind, no distant hum of traffic, no Finn’s stupid excited voice. Just the ringing. He pushed himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. A sharp pain bloomed in his left side, just below his ribs. He grunted, a shallow, choked sound that felt like it ripped his throat. He tried to feel his side, but his arm felt wrong, heavy and slow.

He got to his knees, vision swimming. The plane. Or what was left of it. It had shifted. A lot. The whole rear section, where they’d been, had crumpled inwards, twisting like a soda can. Bits of it were still settling, groaning metal, a dull crackle somewhere deeper inside the wreck. The snow around them was gone, replaced by churned-up dirt and fresh, dark scorch marks. Bits of debris – insulation, wires, shattered plastic – littered the ground.

“Leo?” His voice was a rasp, barely audible even to himself over the ringing. He tried again, louder. “Leo!”

Nothing. Just the whine. He dragged himself forward, crawling on hands and knees. His left hand was scraped raw, stinging in the cold. He ignored it. He had to find Leo. He remembered Leo, just a few feet away, bending over the bag. Touching it. Then the flash. The world falling apart.

He looked for the bag. It was gone. Or buried. The ground here was torn up, uneven. A fresh crater, shallow but wide, marked the spot where the tail section had been. Or where the money had been. It was hard to tell.

“Leo!” A cough broke through his chest, sharp and painful. He tasted more ash, phlegm. He spat, a thick glob hitting the cold dirt. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying. The pain in his side sharpened with the movement, a hot knife twisting. His head throbbed, a dull, insistent beat behind his left ear. He touched it. His fingers came away sticky. Blood. Great.

He stumbled, half-walking, half-limping towards where he’d last seen his brother. The smell of jet fuel was thick now, clinging to the air, making his throat burn. It wasn’t a steady smell, but punctuated by the sharp tang of something burnt, something cooked. He scanned the broken landscape. Twisted steel beams, jagged edges, like teeth. Some still smoking, wisps of grey curling into the flat winter sky.

He found Leo by his boot. One worn, heavy-duty work boot, sticking out from under a pile of insulation and a bent sheet of fuselage. It was angled wrong. Too far out. His stomach clenched. He ran, or tried to, a clumsy, lurching sprint that sent spikes of pain through his ribs. He slid on a patch of ice hidden beneath the debris, slamming his good knee onto a shard of frozen dirt.

“Fuck!” he hissed, teeth gritted. He pushed himself up, pulling at the insulation. It was light, fluffy, but stuck to itself, tearing in long strips. He tossed it aside, revealing more of Leo. His brother was face down, motionless. His jacket was ripped down the back, showing a flash of pale skin, already bruised purple and red.

“Leo? Talk to me.” Alex knelt, heart hammering against his bruised ribs. He reached out, hesitated. He didn’t want to move him, not if something was broken. But he had to know. He put a hand on Leo’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Leo. Wake up.”

Leo didn’t stir. His head was turned to the side, buried in the loose dirt. Alex saw a dark stain spreading on the snow-dusted ground near his brother’s face. Too much dark. Not just dirt.

Alex’s breath hitched. He reached for Leo’s neck, fingers fumbling for a pulse. His own hands were shaking, clumsy. He pressed. Nothing. He pressed harder. The ringing in his ears was so loud, it might be drowning out a whisper, but he felt nothing. Just cold skin.

“No. No, no, no.” He slapped Leo’s cheek, harder than he meant to. “Leo! Get up!”

Still nothing. His brother was too still. His body felt heavy, unyielding. Alex wanted to throw up. The smell of the fuel, the smoke, it all caught in his throat. He felt lightheaded. He checked for a pulse again, desperate. This time, he thought he felt something. A faint, thready beat, barely there, like a distant drum. Or maybe it was just his own shaking fingers, his own desperate hope.

He ripped open Leo’s jacket further. The wound on his back was ugly. A deep gash, bleeding slowly, seeping into the torn fabric. Not good. Not good at all. His ribs felt bad, too. Could be broken. Could be worse.

Alex looked around, wild-eyed. They were alone. Miles from anywhere. The old logging road, already barely passable, would be even worse now, after whatever that was. No phone signal out here. Never was. He’d told Leo that. Told him everything.

He had to move him. Had to get him warm. Had to get him out. But where? The truck was parked a mile down the road. Too far to carry him, especially with Alex’s own pain flaring with every movement. And the cold. The winter air was biting, already starting to numb his raw hands, seep into his thin jacket.

He tried to pull Leo. Just a little. Leo groaned. A low, ragged sound that was music to Alex’s ringing ears. He stopped. “Leo? You hear me?”

Leo coughed, a wet, rattling sound. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, glassy. He looked right through Alex. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He blinked again, a slow, heavy blink, then his eyes closed.

“No! Stay with me.” Alex patted his brother’s cheek again, more gently this time. “Leo. We gotta move. Can you move?”

Leo’s only answer was another shallow, rattling breath. Alex felt tears welling in his eyes. Hot, blurring his vision. He wiped them away with a dirty sleeve, disgusted with himself. No time for that. He had to think. What did you do for a concussion? For a broken anything? He knew nothing. Just that Leo was bleeding, cold, and barely conscious.

The wreckage around them was still groaning. A new crackle, louder this time, sounded from the remaining fuselage. Something shifted overhead, a shadow passing as a large piece of twisted metal broke free and clattered to the ground a few yards away. The air filled with another cloud of dust, making Alex cough again, his ribs seizing up in protest.

They couldn't stay here. The plane was still unstable. Could collapse completely. Could explode again. He looked at Leo, then at the scattered debris. The money. He hadn’t even thought about the money. Now it seemed stupid, a tiny, irrelevant detail against the crushing weight of his brother’s breathing, or lack thereof. Leo had done this. Chased a quick score, like always. And now this.

“Okay. Okay, Leo. I got you.” He wasn't sure how, but he had to. He started to unbutton his own jacket, thinking about stripping off his sweater, wrapping Leo in it. Anything for warmth. He looked at the vast, empty expanse of white-dusted forest around them, the darkening sky, and knew they were truly, deeply alone. The ringing in his ears was fading, slowly, to be replaced by the quiet, terrifying reality of the wind whistling through the torn metal, and the sound of his brother's shallow, ragged breaths. He leaned closer to Leo, trying to hear, trying to catch any sign of life, but all he could hear was the rustle of the wind and the slow drip of something from the broken wing, hitting the ground with a soft, sickening splat. He looked up, his gaze catching on a flicker of movement, something glinting in the dying light from inside the wreckage. Was it more fuel, ready to ignite? Or something else entirely, something still alive in the twisted guts of the plane? He couldn't be sure, but a cold dread settled deep in his gut, colder than the winter air. The world felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the next thing to shatter.

Alex looked at Leo's still face, pale beneath the grime. He was out. Completely. And Alex was alone with the decision, the cold, and whatever secrets the mangled metal still held. He had to choose: move Leo and risk worse injury, or search the wreckage for anything, anything that could help, knowing the next collapse could take them both. The choice felt heavier than the broken plane itself, heavier than anything he’d ever felt.

He took a deep breath, the cold air burning his lungs. The smell of jet fuel was stronger now, mixed with something else, something metallic and sharp, like electricity. It prickled the back of his throat. He glanced at the still-groaning fuselage, then back at his brother. He had to do something. Now. Before the cold claimed them, or before the plane decided to finish the job itself.