Thunderbird

By Lincoln Reed

I’m tossed from the charter plane at two thousand feet, plummeting toward the earth without a parachute. If gravity proves true, I’ll skewer the Alaskan treetops in seconds.

A week in the remote wilderness had seemed like a good idea. It meant time to clear my head. Campfires and hunting. Reflection and recovery from the daily hamster wheel of Corporate America. I would decide what’s really important.

At least my wife will receive the life insurance policy. In seconds, I’ll be a pink mist priced at one million bucks. She’ll be taken care of. I know she’ll miss me.

But, after I’m gone, who else will remember?

Air floods my ears with a static roar.

I brace for impact.

My eyes flash open to behold a sky of orange clouds.

I groan, rub my head, inspect my surroundings—a bowl as wide as a three-car garage of knitted trunks and branches. When I move, my muscles scream. Bones ache. My head feels like a cinderblock. As my vision adjusts to the fading light, I test the wall of threaded limbs around me. It’s oddly comfortable and secure, smelling of pine needles and bark.

Memory returns in snapshots.

A dark blur tears through the plane’s left wing.

The engine sputters.

 The pilot yells over the intercom, “Mayday! Mayday!”

I’m falling.

A thunderous scream pierces my bones.

Open talons scoop me up.

I’m a rag doll cradled in giant claws underneath a feathery abdomen.

Then… darkness.

Wincing, I climb the nest wall, grabbing hold of stick after stick to pull myself upward, resting only when I can glance over the top. The roost is perched on a cliff, perhaps a hundred feet in the air. In the distance, smoke plumes like a black cloud in a vast canvas of evergreens and snow.

The plane? It crashed?

Search and Rescue will look for the survivors.

They’ll find the wreckage.

I dig into my jeans pocket and grab my cell phone. One bar. Two percent battery.

Got to locate the plane. Salvage any gear, guns, or food. Wait until aid comes.

I descend back into the nest where, thirty feet away, three ominous eggs as large as compact cars rest upright. A chilling gust slashes my bare face. I pull my sweater tight.

A shadow descends with flapping wings as loud as cannon fire. It swoops and settles on the edge of the nest, eclipsing the setting sun. Wings twenty feet wide fold into an imposing body of dark feathers and razor claws. The bird examines me with yellow eyes that blink with the brilliance of summer lightning.

This isn’t real.

Can’t be.

Realization settles in my gut. Running isn’t an option. I can’t jump and survive. But, maybe, I could climb down the cliff… if my legs weren’t frozen in place. The creature’s shriek thrashes my eardrums and vibrates my ribs, forcing my lungs into my throat. I collapse into the soft bedding and glance once more at my cell phone.

Something snaps from behind. A slender crack zigzags down the nearest eggshell. Another egg fractures open. A massive beak pokes through and retreats.

I think of my wife, her smile and warm embrace, her hopes for starting a family of our own. If I live to see her again, will she believe me?

A man-sized hatchling tumbles from the closest egg, covered in sticky slime. Its first squawk is met with a resounding screech from its parent. Meanwhile, the sibling hacks away at its prison with a black beak. The third egg remains mute.

“Fine. Clear your head in Alaska,” my wife had said. “Breathe the fresh air. Take a rest. I want you to want this just as much as I do. Can’t do it by myself. If you’re not ready…”

The freed hatchling flaps its wings and caws.

My feet are putty trapped in a bowl of death. I can feel the giant bird’s electric eyes on me like a cook hovering over a stove. I fall to my knees, trembling only partly from the cold. One percent battery. Enough time for a final call.

I once read more than two thousand people disappear each year in Alaska. Predators, some speculate. Or just bad luck. Freak accidents.

That’s what they’ll tell my wife. They’ll say it was an accident.

The ungainly bird waddles forward and jabs at my face. I lunge away and scramble back toward the far edge of the nest.

With every ounce of strength, I clamber up the side of the basin, reaching the top just as the hatchling snaps at my feet. The mother and I lock eyes. Enormous talons loosen their hold on the nest’s rim.

The Alaskan woodland awaits far below. My stomach flips. Nausea creeps up my throat. My thumb taps the cell phone screen and the call starts ringing.

Come on. Pick up.

The bird leans closer, beak opening.

“You land… okay?” The call is breaking up, but it’s my wife’s voice.

“Honey? I’m… I’m ready.”

“That’s wonderf—”

The phone slips from my grasp and falls.

 Huh, a dropped call. My first dad joke.

I can’t die here.

With death so near, I finally know my heart’s desire.

I want to build a nest of my own.

As the mother bird looms above, I consider my fleeting options and make the plunge, tumbling through the air toward the side of the cliff, hoping I can catch hold before—

The talons snatch me again, but now I’m prepared. I punch the bird’s legs and abdomen. I thrash and fight until it swoops lower and lower. I dig my fingers into its flesh.

The claws drop me above a lake. I belly flop. Frigid water jolts my skin.

After I swim to shore, the bird is gone. All that remains is a vast wilderness separating me from the plane’s crash site. Gray smoke plumes in the distance, signaling me forward, calling me home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a professor, writer, and freelance editor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than 30 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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