Jumble in the Rungle

Lost

Even with her head turned away from me, Miley's scream pierced my ears and when the cabin pressure completely gave out and the rest of the passengers saw the engine, my hangover was the least of my problems.

The next two minutes blurred. Smoke entered the cabin from the tail section, streaming in from a crack of light I spotted by the head of an elderly woman holding a rosary, praying frantically. "Dios mio-dios mio!" The plane ticket tucked in the seat across the aisle came whizzing at me.

I clamped my fist shut when the ticket flew into my hand after being drawn to the crack in the fuselage above my head. TRINIDAD, BOLIVA. So, the jumble of our flight took us not from Lima to Cuzco, but southeast to the middle of Boliva, cutting through the jungle of Madre De Dios, the Mother of God. If my estimation proved close to true, Miley and I were in deep—

Fire erupted from the other engine producing a banshee-screaming-noise that I swear made my ears bleed. The worst hangover ever, got worse. With a metallic rip of aluminum and popping of rivets from outside the Cessna, a quarter of the tail flew off. Magazines, barf bags and other loose items sucked through the cabin in a tornado-like fashion. Nasty, I swallowed my acrid vomit as the plane lost control in a graceless descent. I grabbed my backpack from under the seat and handed Miley hers. Not much would be of use in them, but the inevitable crash meant to prepare for impact.

Green swirls broken by grey trails of smoke filled what visibility remained. The first tree the Cessna contacted brought the aircraft around in the direction opposite the drift, feigning a sense that control had been regained. The second pitched the craft up at an angle, but at least it continued in a straight path—more or less.

The third hit felt more like the side of a ravine, solid, and ripped the back half of the plane clear off, taking the woman and her rosary away. Another collision came to tear off the right wing, sending the Cessna into a terrifying spin that no thrill ride could ever match.

Under the canopy: Fifty feet, 40, 30. Branches and lesser trees swatted at the plane as it corkscrewed down. Twenty, 10...

The way in which the Cessna impacted, a rock outcropping rolled open the right-side of the plane like a can of sardines—slicing apart the remaining passengers, yanking them from the Cessna as it did. The left wing tore off, thrown back spinning into the trees. Crumpling as the fuselage continued to part the jungle for sixty yards, earth and mud came flooding in on cue as the cockpit door slammed open—the metal bird scooping up the jungle. Then the plane snapped to a halt.

When the dust settled, I clicked out of my seat belt and helped Miley with hers.

"You okay, Mi?" Blood trickled from a shallow cut on her forehead.

"I'm fine. The question is: are you?"

Oh shit! Delayed by adrenaline, I rubbed my arm at the stinging pain throbbing the length of my Humerus, a hairline fracture at least, my limb turning red and swelling.

As we walked the path of hacked down trees and plowed earth, Miley and I found all the other passengers—save the woman that had been sucked out—all dead. The carnage continued as we surveyed the cockpit, a frozen wave of curdled mud pinning to cover the pilot and crew. Arms pushed out from the debris, struggling to get out at one time; a quick pulse check came up negative for both. We were left behind in the jungle on our own, and not by an oversight of a headcount from a clumsy tour guide.

I undug a first aid kit from the wall of the cockpit as Miley unburied to find the radio. Twisted and flattened beyond function, our best hope to get help vanished and then my fingers happened upon a metal object near the medical supplies—a Ruger handgun.

As it turns out, all jungle is not the same. Machu Picchu—a tourist destination a short train ride from Cuzco—rests in the mountains, located in the fringes of jungle and ranked nothing compared to the vast openness and isolation of Madre De Dios. First, I bandaged up Miley's head. Next, I built a stint for my arm from two branches and some fabric I cut from my seat with the trusty pocketknife in my backpack. And now, the time had come to devise a plan.

My watch said we had six hours left of sunlight, but with the dense jungle overhead we had closer to five. Common sense told me to stick near the aircraft, to hug a tree, and a search party would come for us. But my instinct convinced me that the chances were slim, and if someone came it might be days until they found us. All my training as a Boy Scout kicked in. I gazed through the treetops at the sun.

"North is that way..." I mumbled, "... so we head west leaving a trail of broken branches with plane-seat fabric tied on. If my calculations are correct, then the Rio Inambari is not far off. The river should lead us close to the District of Huepetuhe, a gold mining site that we can call for help from. Thirty—maybe forty miles, tops."

Miley bit her lip and tears waterfalled from her eyes. "Kevin, I'm scared."

I pulled her in and gave my girl a long squeeze, her body shivering—heart thumping. "Shhh. I've got you. It's going to be okay, Scout's honor."

To my relief, Miley's racing heartbeat slowed and two minutes later we set out.