returned gradually, with it a level of pain he had rarely experienced. He wanted to cry out, shout for someone to help him, then became aware of movement. A Lora snake, its venom among the most poisonous in the world, dropped from an overhead branch into the water. He remained deathly quiet, not daring to blink as it moved closer to his face, at one point brushing its snout against his cheek. While not knowing the level of its deadliness, he sensed that if it struck, it would surely kill him. He held his breath, awaiting the stinging bite. But it never came. After several tense moments, the snake left in search of more inviting prey. The near deadly encounter convinced him that if he didn't move soon, he might become dinner for some jungle beast, or be snake bit.
He lifted his right arm to waist level, then grasped the seat buckle. It snapped open easily. Despite the force of ejection, it held him secure when he tumbled a hundred feet through branches and thicket, yet a simple upward motion released him. He could now roll onto his back, freeing his left arm, but it would take another twenty minutes to get out of the seat, into a sitting position. He bent forward, once again stifled a yell and grasped his side. He guessed two, possibly three ribs were cracked. Opening his tattered shirt, he saw a large black and blue bruise.
Two deep lacerations caused blood to cascade down his forehead into his eyes. Scalp wounds, even superficial ones, bleed profusely . A bizarre image came to mind. How would he appear to someone who stumbled onto him at that very moment, sitting straight up in the water, bloody, un-recognizable face? Like something from a freaking zombie movie! He reached for the cool water, splashed several hands full onto his face and head. This helped, but only momentarily. A piece of cloth torn from his shirtsleeve stemmed the bleeding.
An ugly cut to the fleshy part of his thigh opened the possibility of infection. That was a problem . But not the biggest. If he had broken bones in his ankles, or feet, he'd more than likely die right there. He pulled to a crouching position, intensely aware that the snake might return. He stood, first one leg then the other, wobbly, but upright. At least he could move. If he could do that, he could walk out of there to where he could get help.
There was no plausible answer as to why he survived. He could have slammed into any number of tree trunks and been instantly killed . Instead, he miraculously missed hitting large branches and landed in an area of soft, dense undergrowth. He crashed through at the correct angle, which allowed the seat to absorb the impact, plunged through branches then dropped into the stream. He thought about racecar drivers whose cars were totally demolished, the driver walking away from a pile of twisted junk, unscathed.
His tolerance for pain was high. He could deal with that. But where was he in this infinite expanse? He could be a mile from civilization, or five hundred. What about my cell phone? Without thinking, he reached for it, then came to his senses. He was out of contact, held prisoner in a limitless maze of vegetation.
His most urgent need focused on surgical supplies. Without them, there was no way to adequately close his wounds and prevent infection. Only one place held the possibility of finding medical supplies; the wreckage site. It had to be nearby, he reasoned, a half mile at most, but with jungle so thick, that would present no easy task, even for someone in the best of health. Beyond that, it made sense to return to the crash site, since it offered his best chance of rescue.
A strong odor of smoke drifted through the trees. Maybe he was overly optimistic there was anything left to the plane at all. The jungle undoubtedly swallowed the wreckage. For search craft, it would be like trying to spot a life raft in the ocean at 3,000 feet. Sufficient fire and smoke, however, would attract attention. Hundreds of small planes were