“A screaming comes across the sky.”
Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow

“I feel ready to die but it's taking so long
the world's so wicked, the world's so wrong.
I just keep moving on, keep tryin’ stay strong
the world's so wicked, the world's so wrong.”
Insane Clown Posse

I.
I looked down from the window of the cockpit and saw the tiny orange dots below. I knew what they were. Massive tanks of gasoline and oil were exploding in orange fireballs. I figured by now I was over New Jersey. It had been about an hour and a half since I took off from Detroit, or what was left of it, with my agent Dylan Skagway. I knew we were flying east, to the last bastion of civilization, New York City. Why the Big Apple had been spared the destruction that so many other cities had suffered I don’t know. All I knew was that I needed to get to New York City.

I was pretty close, though I still couldn’t see the skyline of New York. Nowadays, it was night all the time. What we’d endured would do that to a planet. I could see the fireballs below, and the only place with that many damn oil tanks was New Jersey.

I had my issues. For one thing, my sweetheart Kim was likely dead. My latest album, Tick Tick Boom was forgotten. I would now be known as Joshua Hill, instead of Jiggy-Fly. But these were nothing compared to my not knowing how to land a Learjet 35A. I failed the Michigan driver’s license test three times; I sure as hell can’t fly an airplane. If it weren’t for autopilot, I’d be dead right now. Hell, I couldn’t even see an airport.

I looked at my instrument panel. My altimeter said about 8,500 meters. My speedometer was saying 950 kilometers an hour. What those converted to in feet and miles an hour, I have no idea. I did understand that I was flying east. And worst of all, I knew I was low on fuel. As I was looking out the window, I felt a hairy thing on my leg.

“Hello, you.” I said. It was Rammstein, Dylan Skagway’s cat. When Dylan called me three days ago to pick me up and drive us to the airport, he had wanted to take Rammstein with him. I told him to leave the cat at his house, but he insisted, so he took Rammstein. It was a good idea on his part. I was glad to have someone to talk to, even if it was just a plump gray cat.

I wish I wish I wish I had some music to listen to. Anything would be fine. Some rap would be best, but I’d listen to anything right now. Pop, metal, country, hell I’d listen to William Hung or “A Horse with No Name” if it meant I didn’t have to hear the steady roar of the airplane engines. When I left the ruins of Detroit, it never occurred to me to bring my CD collection. There wasn’t much I could bring with me to New York City. My house had survived the mess intact, though none of my electronic stuff worked. I didn’t even bring the awards I got at the Grammys a week ago, not even the Best Rap Album.

I looked at my watch. It no longer worked, having stopped on September 2nd just like everything else with an electronic chip in it. Electromagnetic pulses will do that to you. I knew three days had passed since then, though the sky had not changed one bit in those three days. When I was a kid in the ghetto of Detroit, I never could afford a watch, so I developed an internal clock. I often knew what time it was without looking at a clock, and I was rarely off by more than a few minutes. I knew right now that it was around noon, even though the sky was black as midnight.

I was going to be glad to get to New York City, if I lived to reach there. I started to wonder if there were any parachutes on board. Then again, if I couldn’t find the insulin that Dylan needed, what were the odds of me finding a damn parachute?

Another thought hit me. I needed to land this plane. And to land it, I needed a runway. Well, that would be hard if I couldn’t see an airport. I had no way of contacting an airport – unless I used the radio. Of course, I just needed to try the radio. I picked it up, and talked into it. I got no response. Then I realized the problem. If the radio is not working, press the button while speaking into it.

Duh.

I did so, and heard static. I spoke, and asked if anyone could hear me. Once again, I got no response. I must not be close enough to an airport, I thought. Rammstein was now sitting on the co-pilot’s seat, staring into space. He meowed into the radio. Depsite my dire situation, I laughed. He looked up at me with his big gold eyes.

So far this airplane seemed to be flying itself. The autopilot was a handy feature. If this plane didn't have it, I’d have long since crashed. I wish Dylan Skagway were still alive. He actually knew how to fly one of these things. He was even able to repair the airplane after the EMP blast fried the electronic chips. It would be a damn shame if this plane crashed because of my inability to fly after all that.

Oh well, I’ll think of something.