[ WP ] While searching the site of a disaster , you find your own corpse .

John wakes with the sudden confusion of someone awaking from an unplanned nap. Thoughts like ‘ What time is it? ’ and ‘ Where am I? ’ rush through his mind as his eyes open to the sting of a thick black cloud. The choking mist is a mix of jet fuel and burnt hair. 
 
 He reaches out beside him, handing falling on his wife ’ s arm. “ Sarah, ” he says loudly as he shakes her. The seats across the aisle is gone. The entire half of the plane is replaced with rubble. And flesh so mangled the fact that is shrouded in clothing is the only clue to hint that its human. 
 
 John unbuckled his seatbelt and wiped his brow. His sleeve came away streaked with blood. 
 
 “ Sarah, ” he shakes his wife of only two years. “ Sarah, please. Wake up. ” 
 
... I can ’ t lose you. 
 
 Her head hands heavy, but the soft breath escape her nostrils breezes the strands of hair not sticking to her blood-soaked brow. John reaches over to unbuckle her. He knows he should not move her. But the heat grows. A fire swells beneath the scattered fiberglass. 
 
 John runs his hand hand through her hair, peeling it back from before her eyes. His hand softly cradles her cheek. Every emergency lecture half-paid-attention-to has told him that he should not move her in case her neck is damaged. But the heat growing beneath them said otherwise. 
 
 He gently slipped his arm behind her back. His other arm slid beneath her knees. Any other time he has carried her has been in a romantic scenario with him half-afraid he will drop her and either betray his weakness or make her feel insecure about her weight. This time as he pulls her limp body to her chest and stomp over debris, he knows he would never drop. The adrenaline has her feeling weightless. 
 The lights of a lone fire truck nearing followed by a fleet are like a desert mirage through the haze of heat. 
 
 The man stumbles from the debris when the first truck arrives. There are no other survivors in sight. He lies Sarah gently on a patch of grass besides the asphalt. John steps back as the fireman rush forward. Two drop to their knees beside her. They look up past John at the pile of rubble. John looks with them as more firemen pile out of the truck. 
 
 “ Please, I can ’ t lose her, ” John says. “ I will go check for others. ” The man runs back into the wreckage. The firefighters are slow to follow him. They first mingle around the truck. 
 
 John steps into the center aisle. His eyes pass over bone-deep chasms and limbs rearranged. He counts down the rows 2... 3... 4… he moves further along. He and Sarah always seemed to get plane seats in the 20s. As he walks aisle after aisle with no survivor, he gets closer to their seat. 
 
 20... 21… 
 
 He glances up to row 24. There is a knee jutting out into the aisle where he was sitting. He strides forward. Who is this stranger? Was he only able to move up a row before he lost his nerve? But when John comes upon his row, the sneakers look all too familiar. His red running sneakers... the jeans... the hooded sweatshirt. They were all his. His eyes trailed up to his neck... to his face... complete peace spread across a lifeless smile. Dark red coats his face. 
 
 John grabs the shoulder. His own shoulder. “ Wake up. ” He shakes himself vigorously. The flesh and blood likeness of himself only slumps further in his chair. 
 The firefighters tear through the wreckage behind him. 
 
 “ I don ’ t know how that woman survived, ” one says to the other. They come to his body. 
 
 “ Please, ” John looks down at himself. “ I can ’ t lose her... ” 
 
 His words trail off and his eyes drift to his wife strapped to a board and being lifted to a stretcher. 
 
 One of the firefighters presses a hand to his body ’ s neck, feeling for a pulse. 
 “ Nothing. ” 

