A Question of Altitude
We were within a mile-and-a-half of the service roads when we found it.
I was so relieved to have come down from the mountains. Those peaks vaguely discernible through the clouds and the ever present snow just depressed me. I’d even seen a congregation of carrion crows circling in the mist, probably as a result of an opportunistic kill. It had filled me with gloom.
Some people are happier the higher up they go but that’s not for me. Give me some surf and a beach, then lie me down under a Palm tree with a tequila and I’m as happy as I can be. All those mountains just make me claustrophobic. Stir crazy.
The handcuffs cut into my wrists each time we were buffeted by turbulence.
The helicopter that transported me and the bodies alighted brusquely on the helipad. It would only be a short ride along the service road to the local jail.
I had a lot of explaining to do.
This is Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner # 3. Another great Flash Fiction weekly challenge organised by the talented Roger Shipp.