Free October Skies by Alex Scarrow

quietly, as the wagon continued its uncontrolled sideways drift.
    Mr Hussein held his breath as they watched.
    The trail up which they were attempting to winch the wagon was narrow, flanked on one side by a steep bank strewn with boulders and small bushes and trees clutching tightly to the ground. On the other side, the trail dropped away, descending steeply to a rocky gulch through which a stream gurgled noisily below.
    My God, it’s going to go over.
    The oxen were losing their footing, sliding in the churned-up slick of mud and powdered snow turning to slush. Ben recognised the woman aboard the wagon as the wife of one of Preston’s council of Elders, Mrs Zimmerman. She was perched anxiously on the edge of the jockey board, coaxing the oxen forward. She let out a shrill cry of alarm as the wagon continued its slide towards the edge. The wagon finally came to a rest, the left rear wheel slotting into a worn groove on the track, carved by the previous wagons. Mr Hussein’s breath gushed out, a plume of languid vapour that hung before him in the still air.
    As it creaked ominously uphill, Ben realised it was the crippled wagon.
    ‘Oh no, it’s the jury-rigged one.’
    ‘Beg pardon?’ Hussein asked.
    Ben’s eyes darted to the improvised wheel, the round oak table-top, just as it was beginning to buckle and splinter under the lateral weight of the wagon. The wagon suddenly lurched at an angle, and the wheel cracked loudly.
    Ben, along with several other bystanders, called out to her to jump off.
    Mrs Zimmerman, perched on the jockey board, stared down at the gulch beside the wagon, and then glanced behind her through the pursed canvas opening of the cover behind her, drawn tight with a puckering string.
    What’s she doing? Jump, woman. Jump!
    The wagon slowly slid in the mush, further over the edge, the fractured wheel creaking alarmingly. The oxen on the left-hand side of the doubled team, seeing the drop right next to them, began to panic, scrambling to the right, causing a spreading confusion amongst the others. The wagon canted still further and Ben could see there was an irretrievable momentum building up that was going to carry it over.
    ‘For God’s sake jump!’ he shouted at her.
    Mrs Zimmerman suddenly turned and clawed at the tightened canvas flap. She screamed something, a warning . . . as she tried to get inside. He remembered then that the woman had a young daughter, and that she must be inside the wagon. The woman managed to loosen the ties of the canvas flap and was half inside, desperately scrambling to reach for her little girl, when the improvised wheel suddenly shattered with a loud crack.
    The top-heavy wagon lost its grip, toppling over the edge, throwing the woman out on to the ground. She landed heavily at the top of the slope only to watch the wagon roll over as it tumbled down the slope, crushing the hickory canvas bows and, undoubtedly, the poor girl inside. The oxen, dragged over the edge with it, followed in its wake, a squirming tangled mass of muscle and hide and flailing legs.
    The wagon’s tumbling descent, as one whole, came to a shuddering halt as it slammed into a tree trunk. The wooden vehicle shattered with an explosive force, leaving an avalanche of debris - torn and jagged planks of wood, barrels and boxes and tattered cloth and shattered pottery - to continue its rolling descent to the bottom of the gulch. The oxen followed the same path down, most of their limbs and necks already broken and flopping like lengths of ribbon.
    Skittering down the slope a moment later came a length of rope and, attached to it, the axle ripped from the conestoga being used as a winch at the top of the hill.
    Ben looked up the trail to see that the wagon had been pulled partway down and turned on its side, leaving a trail of damaged and battered possessions strewn behind it.
    Mr Hussein whispered a curse in Arabic.
    It was Preston who reacted before anyone else, throwing his broad-brimmed hat to