Like the ominous beating of war drums, thunder rolled in the distance. Thick, dark clouds billowed above the horizon, cutting off all view of the sky, all paths to the world they called home. Lightning split the sky, flames spewing from the mouth of the storm. Like fireworks on the 4th of July, sparks flew up where lightning hit rock, the specks of flame scattering across the vast cornfields, setting them on fire.
The earth shook, groaning as if in too much pain to bare, twisting and turning. The ground cracked, showering the buildings still standing with dirt and ashes. Nothing seemed to be right… chaos was erupting, and ending, as fast as it had all happened.
For a few moments, everything stood still, only to be rattled once more with disaster. But in those moments you could hear so much. There was no sound of the earth, no rain, no thunder. Only the distant whooshing of flames cut through the other noises. Screams of pain, of fear, of death all cut through the air, almost making the air churn with their sounds.
They watched as it happened, shaken to their core, fearing for their lives. They all understood that this may in fact be their last moments, and all they hoped was that it would be finished shortly.
The room they stayed in was dark, only lit by a lantern, tossing and turning as the very core of the earth swayed. They slid against each other, wings, tails, and propellers hitting each other as they tried to stay on their wheels. A few sparks flew here and there, as the sounds of metal against metal rippled through the air, adding to the discord of the moment.
Everyone was terrified.
The world continued to tremble for a few engine stopping moments, when all stopped.
Nothing but silence could be heard. It was so quiet, it was deafening. It was so incredibly quiet that everyone had taken to holding their breaths. Not a sound broke through the barrier of thick soundless noise.
And then he sighed. The plane went by the name of Dusty Crophopper, a former crop duster, a racer, and, recently, a certified firefighter. He, along with three other vehicles, Dottie, Chug, and the Skipper, were in a bomb shelter, built in World War II.
They wouldn't have been alive otherwise.
It had been Skipper, an old F4U Corsair, that first mentioned the shelter. It had been made when the paranoid vehicles of the US dug up shelters wherever they could in case a bombing happened. It was unlikely they'd ever be used, but now…
Now, in the terrible turn of events, these quakes were common. Most all electricity had been destroyed, and very few vehicles still survived. Everyone's days seemed numbered.
"Hey, uh, Skip," Dusty's trembling voice, asked, "Do you think it's safe to go out again?"
Skipper turned around, his bright blue eyes filled with a fear like none had seen before. Nobody would have thought that the Corsair could be afraid of much anything, yet, like the earth itself that day, Skipper was shaken to his core. "I- I think so," he stuttered. Burns, where paint had bubbled and blistered away, were present on his right wing and nose as he turned. They had been seared into him when he had tried to go save the town's firetruck, Mayday. He'd been unsuccessful, finding Mayday dead, killed by the flames that had burnt his station.
And as the Corsair turned, you could see that his tail wasn't in the best of shapes. The war veteran had done more than his share in trying to save the other members of Propwash Junction's community. So far, for all they knew now, they were the only ones left.
The two planes, fuel truck, and forklift all made their way up the bomb shelter's ramp. Skipper, of course, insisted he go first to see if it were safe.
He threw the door open by extending one wing, allowing dust to explode from where the entrance was. It made Dusty, allergic to dust, ironically, to be thrown into a sneezing attack. Skipper ignored the plane behind him for the time being, scanning the horizon for danger.
All he saw was the countryside, torn by cracks that zig-zagged across the earth. Dust and ash was thick in the air, coating everything, and debris was still settling from the fire and the quake.
The destruction shocked Skipper, so that he just stood there, dumbfounded. "It's okay to come out," he said softly. "But you're not going to like what you see."
The Skipper rolled out, followed by Dusty, Dottie, and Chug. They took in their surroundings with complete shock. They couldn't even begin to understand what they were seeing.
Their home was in ruins, destroyed beyond recognition. The few buildings that still stood weren't what they used to be. There were long streaks of ash across their sides, or wisps of flames still flickered among the debris. Nobody could speak for many long minutes as they took in what had once been Propwash Junction.
"We have to search for survivors," Skipper said, his voice worn and slightly scratchy. "Come on."
Chug, who had once thought that being in an apocalypse would be awesome, now thought differently. This was horrifying, and, frankly, painful. He and the others began to stroll through the wreckage, checking for life other than themselves.
They found none. Not until they reached the scarred remnants of the Fill N' Fly did they see him. He was an old biplane, beat up from nose to tail with dents and scratches. He almost seemed to be falling apart, rusting in more places than one. For a moment, they thought he was dead, long gone like all the others.
But he opened his eyes, bouncing up as if there wasn't a care in the world. His tail gear was slightly bent, so he stumbled slightly, but was quick to recover. "Dusty! How ya doin'? Where've you been? Not racing, that I know. Ya know, you should really, really help me replant these fields. We could rebuild the town in no time! You're the best plane at dustin' crops I know."
Dusty grimaced, loathing the biplane. "Leadbottom, the entire town's dead, and that's all you think about?"
Leadbottom had yet to be phased, "What, too soon? C'mon, Dusty, ya gotta put the past behind ya."
The crop duster nearly exploded, "Leadbottom! It's the end of the world, the town is destroyed, who knows how long any of us have left, and all you can think about is dusting crops? Seriously! There's more to life that that!"
Skipper stepped in, "Dusty's right. Leadbottom, there's more right now than just dusting crops."
The biplane averted his eyes, still into his idea, but not wanting to admit it. "Okay then," he said.
A few moments of silence ensued, slight anger vibrating through the air, still thick with smoke and ash, making it harder to breath. But the silence was cut off by a clap of thunder. It made everything rattle, so loud that the vehicles were dazed for a second.
Lightning crackled above them, making their engines run faster in the electrical current. Dottie screamed something about going back to the bomb shelter, but nobody could hear her. The sudden storm was too loud.
The storm clouds billowed and swirled into one giant mass, and electricity flickered in between the clouds, massing in the middle like a giant death ray. In a streak of electrical power, the lightning surged towards them. There was nothing of the feeling of being electrocuted, making their engines run full speed. There was only the feeling of pain, and the sharp bright sword of light, swallowing their consciousness into darkness.