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“Oh thank god. Thank fucking god.” Some rough laughter rattles out from the wounded pilot, wheezing from within his mask. Way up in his cockpit in the sky he palms at the necklace in his pocket with a free hand and grasps it. “Bunker.” He laughs again, at the absurdity of it all, delirious and thankful for the sudden help. “Thought I was dying up here, bunker.”
“Easy soldier. You’re not dying, not if I can help it.” You stand over the radio collected, one hand on your temple and the other on the receiver. “Whereabout are you? Closest landmarks? Anything discernible?” There’s no time for conversation, you need to reign him in.
“Flying in over..uh” The pilot looks through the dust coated glass as the plane shakes and stirs. He attempts to recognize the wasted layout of the city below, whatever neighborhood he’s cresting over. But it’s hard, everything’s been raised. “central. Looks like central.”
You nod, looking at your maps, looking at your neighborhood in relation to his location. “Good, good. I’m in Springfield. Not far south of central, you know it?”
“Yeah, yeah I know it. The burbs huh. I hear you. It’s going to be a tight squeeze. Landing’s going to be rough. I’ll try to find a field. Wouldn’t want to crash out in your backyard.” He chuckles to himself again, a hollow chuckle as his lungs sit on the verge of collapsing.
“Springfield’s a big stretch, things start looking the same. Wherever you land you’ll need to get here quick, before night. I’ll give you my cords. You’ll see it when you’re there.”
“Right.”
Over the next minute the pilot recites the numbers to himself as you list them out over the air, repeating them beneath his breath as the plain turns in the skies high above the skeletons of buildings.
The sound of a receiver being picked up and put down blends into the static of the pilot’s chaotic audio, it goes unnoticed.
Thirty minutes pass, silence between the both of you, the only thing you can hear is the garbled sounds of the plane’s engine over the speaker. Heavy silence hangs over the shelter as you sit there tracing your map with your finger.
“Hey bunker? You there?”
“I’m here.”
“If it doesn’t pan out, all of this. I need someone to know who I am. To know I was here.”
You say nothing, closing your eyes and rubbing your hand across your forehead.
The pilot looks out onto the fields of ash and gnarled scorched brush. Toxic clouds swelling and dispelling below. Lines and lines of burnt out cars clogging the roads. “I don’t want to be another body, bunker. I don’t.” He takes another shaking breath, the mask struggling, he doesn’t let go of the necklace in his pocket. “My name. My name’s Michael.”
You grasp the receiver and tell him your name in return.
“nice to meet you. Nice to talk to someone else.”
“Likewise. Looking forward to seeing you land, buddy. How’s it looking up there.”
