Heat, the stench of rotting, burning flesh, smoke, rubber, and all sorts of foul smells roused Costas from his state of unconsciousness. The copilot had been impaled by a branch, which had gone through the canopy glass, and through his head. The young man didn't stand a chance. The Navigator and bombardier had been thrown from their stations, their mangled bodies strewn about the cabin among blood-soaked walls.
Costas hacked, as the foul stench of smoke filled his nostrils, but he knew he had to escape.
Grabbing the harness that restrained him firmly to the flight seat, he yanked at it's clasps, undoing them one by one, before he fell free from his chair, hitting the ground face first, but clawing away from the flight deck.
The floor was hot, soaked with blood and viscera, which Costas percieved through blurred and fading vision.
"Come on, you're not dying here on this gods forsaken rock."
Slowly he pulled himself to his feet, grabbing the cargo net for support, and then he pulled himself to the first aid kit, a brilliant red triangle with the rod of Aesculapius emblazoned on the front.
He opened the box and fumbled with it's contents, grabbing a pressurized syringe loaded with medical nanites and a powerful narcotic, and then he jabbed it into his leg, which had been bleeding profusely from a deep gash. Then he swiftly grabbed a stimpak, the bright green colored syringe, and held it firmly to his chest, injecting the contents. His heart began to race, the pain numbed and his vision cleared, with this newfound clarity he grabbed the canister of biofoam, filling his wound and wrapping tightly with clean gauze, splinting the leg in case there was more damage.
He hobbled to the bulkhead, grabbing an MC-1 Carbine from a nearby rack, as well as a small emergency duffel that contained emergency rations, ammunition, fusion cells, and a medical kit.
"The stuff will be okay in the pods, the kanvium laminate will keep out nosy people." He said to himself, shoving the heavy door open, and stumbling out into the forest.