Free The 1000 Souls (Book 2): Generation Apocalypse by Michael Andre McPherson

Tevy’s heart rate picked up. There was nothing he could do but watch. There was no ripper to fight, nowhere to hide or run. The sun hung so low on the horizon that it was obscured by low cloud.
    “What’s going on?” he asked.
    Milan shook his head as he struggled with the yoke. “No. This is very bad. I cannot climb. We’re losing power. This could be bad fuel, or maybe the timing chain is stretched. I really don’t know, but you are about to be very glad we’re in a small plane. Get on the radio and start calling Mayday.”
    Tevy picked up the microphone for the radio, remembering that he had to push the button before speaking. “Anyone out there? We’re in trouble.” He tried not to let the panic, the sense of helplessness, flow through his voice.
    “Wrong. Give me that.” Milan snatched the mic away. “Mayday, Mayday. This is Milan Novak. Mayday. Mayday. St John’s come back.” He passed the microphone to Tevy. “Keep saying that, but let go of the key after every repeat and give them a chance to respond.”
    Tevy continued, trying not to exclaim in surprise every time the seat dropped out from under him only to press back up when the engine stabilized for a few moments. They passed through a gray cloud and dropped again, and now an evergreen forest stretched below them, only broken by rocky hills and narrow lakes.
    “Look for the highway,” shouted Milan. “It should be close. Look for any landmark.”
    Tevy turned to look east through his window, and the plane banked for a moment, giving him a good view down. Trees and unforgiving rock were spilt by a deep gorge with a foaming river, but otherwise it looked hopeless: there was nowhere to land.
    A man’s voice crackled over the radio. “Go for St. John’s. Is that you Milan?”
    “It’s Tevy. I mean, yes, it’s Milan. I’m just using the radio for him.”
    “Are you putting down on the highway? Where are you?”
    “Tell them we should be close.” Milan squinted north through the windshield and through his side window to the west, where the sun hung low and red on the horizon. “Where the hell are we?”
    “You don’t know?”
    “We had some headwinds pushing us around, so I was planning to find the tower. It is not like I have a GPS anymore.”
    Tevy keyed the microphone. “We should be close. Can you see us?”
    “Not that close!”
    The plane dropped again and stabilized. Tevy, still desperately scanning the trees, caught his breath. “Look, over there. I think it’s a bridge.”
    Now Milan banked the little plane sharply, and, sure enough, a gray curve of steel rose up above the trees. “Thanks God. Good eye. Give me this.” He snatched the microphone back. “St John’s, we’re just passing the Mattagami River Bridge. I must put down soon, so we will only make it to a couple of miles north. Come get us, ASAP. I have brought Jeff some NATO ammo.”
    The engine went dead, and the rushing wind under the wings emphasized the silence. Milan dropped the microphone and took the yoke firmly in both hands. “Oh, my little baby. Just a little farther. Come on, please, just a little farther.”
    Pine and spruce trees raced under them, and Tevy could have jumped to a rock hill that swept below if they weren’t going so fast. He even thought about it, anything to take control, to be the master of his fate instead of sitting there, helplessly waiting for the end, his heart pounding to get out of his chest
    The rocky hill dropped away to reveal the gray line of the highway. Milan banked left as gently as he could, but the maneuver cost them precious height. A bough from a particularly tall spruce slashed their underside, pitching the plane forward, but Milan managed to pull them to level.
    They were too low and too far from the highway. The top of another tree slammed the wing strut on Milan’s side, ripping it away, but the wing held in place, giving him a fighting chance.
    “Time is now to pray!” shouted Milan.
    They almost overshot