Ok, those of you who are putting up with all my assorted craziness, I've decided to push forward and post what I've got. I've been hesitant to post for various reasons which may or may not be clear as the story goes along. . .but I'll just drop it out there and hopefully all will be well. Thanks for reading & reviewing, it means everything to me. . .

When Penhall came to, his first thought was that he'd been kicked out of his house again, and been forced to take up residence in the street. Why else would he be lying out in the snow? He opened his eyes and realized he had a splitting headache. What the? – Had he been drinking as well? He tried to remember where he'd been, what he'd done. And while he knew he was outside, no matter how hard he stared, these did not look like any streets he'd ever been on before.

He slowly lifted his head and touched the back of it, where it hurt the most. His fingers came away sticky with blood. He squinted into the dark and managed to see the outline of something fairly large in front of him. Too tall for a car. It almost looked like the tail section of a –

Plane. Everything hit him in a rush. The other guy – the doctor, Michael – one minute they'd been talking and laughing about something Hanson had done on one of their cases and then, out of nowhere, the plane had started shaking and nose diving toward the ground.

The plane.

Hanson.

Penhall forced himself to a sitting position, blood trickling down the back of his neck. His entire body felt battered, but other than the head wound, it didn't appear as if anything was too badly injured. I must've been thrown clear somehow, he thought. He did remember taking his seat belt off once he saw Hanson out of his seat, and the doctor telling him to put it back on, but after that Penhall's mind was blank.

He peered into the darkness – yes, that was definitely the tail section of the plane in front of him – but where was the rest of it?

The loud crack – the crates crashing from one end of the plane to the other – Hanson calling his name while crawling around on the floor – Michael shouting for him to keep his seatbelt on even as they heard the right wing splinter off when they hit some trees. . .

Penhall sat for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He slowly tested his arms and legs, making sure nothing was broken. It was eerily quiet, and the moon cast a bluish glow over everything.

Other than the leaking wound at the back of his head and a sore left wrist, he seemed all right.

But where was everyone else?

Where was Hanson?

"Tom!" He called as loud as he could. Listened. Waited.

Nothing.

"Hanson!"

Again, nothing.

Well, that's it then, Penhall thought. I've got to start walking. There's no sense in just sitting here and freezing. Hanson's got to be around here somewhere. I'll just go until find him.

He thought he heard a faint noise then – a faint moan. Penhall listened. Silence. The wind, he thought. Or me losing it. He slowly got to his feet, not really sure which in direction to go.

The low groaning sound came again. This time, Penhall could tell it was coming from the section of the plane in front of him.

Penhall got it. He began sprinting, but the combination of the sloping, slippery ground and his own shocked unsteadiness sent him skittering across the rocky surface like some kind of crab. "Hanson!" he called again, as he got closer. He regained his footing as he reached the plane – what was left of it – and grabbed a hold of the cold metal to steady himself.

"Doug. . . "

No, not Hanson. Michael. Of course – he'd been the one Penhall had been sitting with. Penhall went around to the side where the entire wall had been sheared off.

Inside was the other man, the two seats that they'd been sitting in now resting in a twisted pile on top of him. The only part of his body that wasn't covered was his head and neck. "Jesus!" Penhall muttered. He immediately grabbed a piece of the seat and began tugged at it, and was shocked when it wouldn't budge. He pulled again, harder this time – still, there was no give whatsoever.

"Mike," he said. The man opened his eyes briefly. "Doug, are you ok?" he whispered.

"Yeah – look, can you move at all? Can you maybe lift some of this stuff off your legs?" Penhall was yanking at the crushed seats with everything he had, sweat beginning to break out on his forehead, blood still dripping down the collar of his jacket. "Doug, I'm being crushed," Michael said, and Penhall suddenly realized the man was struggling for breath.

"I – I can't lift this," Penhall said, beginning to panic inspite of himself. He braced his leg against the seat and managed to raise the mass of twisted metal off the man's chest just about an inch or so.

"Can you grab it?" Penhall asked desperately. There was no way he could either move this off by himself or hold it up indefinitely.

"Can you move at all?"

"My arms are trapped," Michael said. "There's something-- something holding me down – I can't – "

"I – I'll have to go and find something to free you," Penhall said. He was loathe to do it, hated the idea of leaving him alone while he stumbled around in the dark looking for he wasn't-sure-what, but he didn't see what choice he had. "Hang on, Mike, I'll hurry. Just – hold on."

Penhall gently let go of the metal and hurried back into the snow, trying to think. How long would this man live with all that weight crushing him? A few minutes? Hours? A couple days? Get your shit together, Penhall, he told himself. The first thing you've got to worry about is finding something to lift some of that weight off him so he can breathe. Concentrate on that.

Again, even as he circled the wreckage, trying to catch sight of anything he might use as a wedge between the young doctor's body and the twisted metal heaped on him – Penhall's thought returned to Hanson. He knew he couldn't leave, couldn't go search for him, wouldn't even think of leaving Michael stranded like this – all he could do was hope that Hanson was all right, that wherever he was he'd been as lucky as Penhall and escaped with little or no injury.

/

"Michael. . ."

Faint, yet persistent. In his dream, someone was looking for Michael. Hanson tried to ignore the voice, but just as he slipped back into sleep, the call would come again:

"Michael, please. . .where are you?"

Slowly, Hanson allowed himself to be pulled back to consciousness. "Who was Michael? Where the hell was he?

Wherever he was, it was dark.

And freezing.

And he was apparently lying against some kind of machinery? Equipment? Trash? Hanson couldn't place it, even with his eyes open. He was lying half on his back, half on his side and he could taste blood on his lips. Was I shot? he wondered, his eyes closing once more. It certainly seemed possible – the blood, the way he was lying there, the pain that was washing over him in waves – he started to drift off again, but that damn voice returned, now beginning to sound distressed:

"Michael. . .help me. . . "

Hanson forced his eyes open and managed to roll over onto his left side. His entire ribcage exploded with pain and he actually cried out, the pain forcing him into full consciousness.

"Michael?" God. What the hell was going on? Hanson tried once more to sit up, this time rolling to his other side and grabbing a piece of metal in front of him. Alternately panting for breath and moaning in pain, he managed to get himself into a sitting position.

The first thing he saw was moonlit snow and rock.

In a startled rush, he remembered everything, what had happened, where he was.

Penhall.

Where was he?

Hanson pulled himself to his feet and looked around. As far as he could tell, he was standing in the shell of the cockpit, the damaged window frame bending and creaking with the wind. Except for the intact pilot's seat, everything else was a pile of unrecognizable metal with no sides and no roof.

He stepped out onto the snow-covered ground, his arm cradled against his sore ribs. Directly behind the part of the plane he'd just exited was another piece of the fuselage, pushed up against the back of the cockpit. "Doug!" Hanson began groping his way around the sides.

"Thomas?"

Marilinda. How had he forgotten about her? Hanson made his way to the back side and found an opening – it wasn't large and the edges were jagged metal, but he was able to get through.

The space was small – there was no way to even stand and there was debris everywhere – but the sides and roof were miraculously intact. "Marilinda, it's me," Hanson said. Without the moonlight, he couldn't see anything.

"I'm stuck, something is on top of me," he heard her say. She was right in front of him – Hanson shoved a couple boxes out of the way, grimacing at the pain the movement was causing him. "Hang on," he said. "This might take me a minute."

The seats they'd been in were there – flattened but still intact, and the young woman was pushed between the seats and the side of the wreckage. On top of her were two large crates – they weren't particularly heavy, but between the cramped space and the exquisite pain stabbing at his side it took Hanson a bit to pull the crates aside and free her. "Are you hurt?" he asked anxiously, suddenly very aware that she was pregnant and they were in the middle of nowhere. He tried to help her out of the tiny space she was wedged in but his own pain made it difficult to do anything.

"Where is Michael? Where is my husband?"

"I don't know," Hanson said. "I – the plane is in pieces."

"We need to find him."

Hanson took her arm, tight enough so she was forced to put her attention on him. "Just – rest a minute. Make sure you're ok."

She did as he asked, but he could see the anxiety in her face. "Where do you think he is? And your friend?"

"We won't be able to find them just this minute," Hanson said. "It's dark. We may have to wait until daylight because I don't know which way he – and Doug – might be. . ."

She made to stand up and he helped her as best he could. "I just want to try," she pleaded. "Maybe they're close by. I mean, you were close by – and what about the pilot?"

"I – I didn't see him." She was trying to grope her way across the floor to the opening. "Marilinda, just wait a second. Are you sure you're ok?"

"Yes, I think so," she said impatiently. "Thomas, maybe someone knows we crashed – maybe someone is looking for us – we need to be out there so they can see us!"

Maybe. Hanson crawled out behind her, gritting his teeth so as not to cry out as he felt the bones in his ribs grate together. Something is broken, he thought. He wondered briefly what else was injured. He could tell the left side of his face had taken a beating, but that was nothing compared to what was going on with his ribs and whatever else. And he couldn't share Marilinda's optimism – the plane was old, the pilot somebody they'd hired out of nowhere who probably hadn't filed a flight plan – but he was reluctant to take away her hopes just yet.

In the end, he didn't have to. When they were back outside and surveying the wreckage in the desolate snow, some of the hope faded from Marilinda's eyes. The wind was strong and she began shaking, both out of cold and shock. "But where do you think they could be?" she murmured.

"I – I don't know," he repeated. He leaned against the side of the plane, trying to catch his breath. For the first time, Marilinda noticed that he was hurt.

"Thomas, are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He wasn't, but there was no sense in adding that problem to the list of the more pressing ones they faced. "Just banged up. I got lucky."

She nodded, though he could see doubt in her face. She pressed a hand to her stomach, bent forward a little. "What is it?" Hanson asked tensely. As trained as he was for emergencies, as many times as he's been faced with life and death decisions at his job, he knew he was woefully unprepared for what lay ahead. No light, no proper clothing or shelter, no food or water –

A baby that could be born at any time—

"It's nothing," she whispered. "Just – I feel shaky – and I want my husband –"

"Here." He gently led her to the part of the plane that he'd been in, guided her to the pilot's seat. "Sit here and rest. It's not great but its all we've got until I – figure out something better." He waited until she was sitting, eyeing her anxiously. "Are you sure you're all right?"

She leaned her head back and took a deep breath. "I'm ok," she said. "I think it was just – lying down and then when I stood up – and it's so cold –"

"Stay here," Hanson said. "I'm going to – go back to the other side and see what I can do – find something warm for us to use –" What that something would be, Hanson had no idea, but they wouldn't last the night without some kind of shelter or covering.

He didn't dare go far and leave Marilinda alone for too long – not that he felt capable of going that far anyway, not with the darkness and the wet snow effectively chilling him enough so that all he could think about was getting warm somehow. In the end, all he could manage to find was some kind of plastic tarps in one of the crates in the wreckage. It was the same as finding nothing, but Hanson already knew that he was going to have Marilinda stay where he'd first found her – it was cramped, it was awful, there was only room for one person at best, but it would be relatively warm since the sides and top were still together. He gave no thought to his own injuries though he was aware that every move he made was painful and exhausting, including just breathing. As he pulled things out of boxes he automatically looked for items that Marilinda could use, because while he wasn't consciously thinking about how much responsibility rested on him at the moment, he knew he had to put her and the baby first. When he stepped back outside with the tarps, he looked longingly behind him at the darkened mountainside – he thought briefly of Penhall but couldn't allow himself to think about him too much because if he did, if he pictured him lying alone and injured – or – alone – in the snow with nobody to help him – Hanson shook his head to free his mind of the image – then he'd become overwhelmed, and overwhelmed was the last thing he could afford to be right now.