The Guardian of Threshold Read Free

the final few feet toward the pavement.

CHAPTER TWO
    FROM BAD TO WORSE
    A s a sudden warmth flooded my body, I managed to straighten the airplane just before it hit the interstate by applying all the left rudder I could at the last moment.
    I was astonished at how well I was doing. It was like I’d made an emergency landing before. The Cessna gently touched the wet asphalt. Honestly, it was the smoothest touchdown I had ever performed, almost like it wasn’t me flying. Then finally I understood: it wasn’t me. I wouldn’t have been able to pull that off. I had help, from whom I didn’t know.
    As my mind raced to figure out what had just happened, I forcefully and stupidly applied full brakes. Almost immediately, smoke started coming out of the landing gear as if it was on fire. Suddenly, the whole plane skidded sideways and came to a sudden stop on the grass median, narrowly missing a few cars.
    When I came about, I was in shock and unable to move… I had pulled it off. But that wasn’t me. They were my hands, but I wasn’t controlling them. The part where I pushed hard on the brakes, that was me. But not the rest.
    After a minute or so, I finally felt safe enough to move. I pushed the radio button and said, “I made it! I’m in the median, but I made it.”
    “Are you all right?” asked Gilles and the tower operator, almost at the same time.
    “I think I am… I just have a bump on my head,” I said as something warm oozed down my forehead. I ran my finger along my scalp to see the extent of the damage: blood dripped down my forehead, but the cut appeared minor. I wiped my bloody fingers on my pants and looked around to make sure that I and everyone else around me were in one piece.
    “Mark, hang on, emergency services are on their way!” Gilles said. I could hear his sigh of relief over the radio.
    I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the passenger door. My door was blocked by the median. The Cessna’s left wing almost touched the grass, but aside from some worn tires and a badly bent propeller, the airplane seemed to be in fairly good shape. Wish my head had been so lucky.
    When I stumbled outside, I noticed that traffic had come to a halt on both sides of the highway. Some motorists had come out of their cars to see if I was okay. Some seemed thrilled, while others appeared upset and looked at me with accusing eyes. How dare I mess up their afternoon commute?
    My whole life, I’d never seen so much action in one place. The sound of sirens filled the air. In the distance, I could see an army of EMTs, police cars, and fire trucks making their way toward me. They used the median, the interstate shoulder, and any other openings they could to get to me. Scattered emergency lights decorated both the northbound and southbound lanes.
    “Are you all right?” asked the first police officer on the scene.
    “I’m… okay,” I said, still shaking and bleeding.
    Emergency vehicles and news vans quickly surrounded the place. There were even a couple helicopters circling above. One was from the police department, and the other was from a local TV station.
    “What’s your name?” the officer asked politely as she opened her first aid kit and examined my wound.
    “Mark,” I said. “Mark Anthony Ryser.”
    “Mark! Were you flying that airplane? Is there anyone else?” she asked, looking at the plane.
    “No, there isn’t anyone else. I ran out of fuel and had to make an emergency landing,” I said, afraid I would be in trouble.
    “Well… nice landing,” she said and smiled, much to my surprise.
    “So… I’m not in trouble?”
    “Not that I know of. I’m sure the FAA will eventually have some questions for you. They’re the ones who investigate this sort of thing,” she said casually. “Now, Mark, I need to inform your parents. What’s your mom’s number?”
    “My mom’s dead,” I said as she cleaned the wound on my forehead and placed a bandage over it.
    “I’m sorry. Who’s responsible for