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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: timefram.txt (F+/M, rom, v, mast, sci-fi)
Authors name: Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
Story title : Timeframe
--------------------------------------------------------
Copyright 2003. As the author, I claim all rights under
international copyright laws. This work is not intended
for sale, but please feel free to post this story to
other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and text
intact. Revision to the text (such as the basis for
another story) is acceptable as long as the original
author is given credit and the resulting story is
distributed free of charge. Any commercial use of this
work is expressly forbidden without the written
permission of the author.
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Timeframe (F+/M, rom, v, mast, sci-fi)
by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
***
What might have happened to another 767 flying through
the time-rip in Stephen King's story, The Langoliers.
This group of survivors ends up in the future instead of
the past, and have serious problems of their own.
Especially with a deranged United States senator named
Catherine Montes. (A long read at 123 pages, so don't say
I didn't warn you.)
***
This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray any
person living or dead, nor any known situation. This
story is meant for adults only and is not to be read by
person’s under the age of 18, or the legal age in the
county/state/country in which the reader resides.
If you would like a Microsoft Word version of this story
(much easier to read), please contact me at
MarciaR26@aol.com
Note to the Reader:
This story is based upon the short novel, The Langoliers,
by Stephen King.
After the novel The Stand, The Langoliers is my favorite
Stephen King story. I have read it half a dozen times,
listened to the Books on Tape version, and seen the made
for TV movie. (Which wasn't really bad, except I hated
Patricia Wettig in the main role and Bronson Pinchot as
Craig Toomey. David Morse was perfect as Captain Engle,
and so was Mark Lindsay Chapman as Nick Hopewell.) I just
couldn't get enough.
I started writing this version of the story right after
reading The Langoliers the first time. It was hopeless to
even think I could come close to the original story, but
I didn't care. It was a compulsion. I had to do it.
To make a long story short, I envisioned what might
happen if the very next airplane flying through Stephen
King's time-rip flew into the future, instead of the
past. I envisioned all kinds of cool things that future
"timeframe" might hold. Since King's characters slept
their way from the dead past into the waiting future at
the end of his story, I figured things could go both
ways. I even figured out what caused his characters to
skip across their own "present" to get there. Anyway, I
got as far as getting the survivors onto the ground in
Washington, DC, and into the Mid-field concourse, and
then I gave up. I'm no Stephen King. I couldn't come up
with the rest of the story.
For the next couple of years, the story sat around on my
hard drive gathering dust. Then one day I opened it up
just to take a look, and of course I started rewriting as
I read. What a dumb thing to do. By the time I got to the
end I was totally frustrated, wanting to finish the
story. So I grabbed the book, located the approximate
corresponding place in his story, threw it onto my
scanner, and scanned the rest of the pages. I then ran
the scanned images through my OCR program and cleaned
them up. Then I sat down and did the disgusting job of
substituting my own characters into the rest of Stephen
King's story.
Although I used much of his dialogue and much of his
narrative, I also kept in most of what I had originally
envisioned for my story. In the end, even though it
REALLY disgusted me stealing his story, I liked my
alternate version.
To all of you Stephen King fans, I can only say that I'm
sorry for what I did and hope you like what you read
despite that. Just remember, I'm basically just an
Internet hack, so don't expect too much.
TIMEFRAME
by Marcia R. Hooper
(MarciaR26@aol.com)
Adapted from the novel:
THE LANGOLIERS
by Stephen King
Chapter 1
Saturday, July 20, 2013, 2:54 A.M. PDT
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
(Departed LAX, 11:30 p.m.)
Destination: Washington, D.C.
Jill Cooney awoke to confusion.
"Don't tell me to be quiet!" a woman stridently yelled.
Fear was in her voice, and anger as well. "I want to know
what's going on!"
Jill blinked rapidly, unsure if she were still dreaming.
Her heart raced. Her chest ached. She had indented both
palms with her fingernails. Eight tiny red crescents
stood out like angry grins.
What had she been dreaming about?
Looking around she blinked again; except for herself, the
row of seats was empty. It had not been empty before. Had
it? Unsure of anything after being startled awake, Jill
checked her watch and found it to be just before three
a.m.
Only that wasn't right.
The view through the window was an incongruously blue
sky, with brilliantly white and fluffy clouds all the way
to the horizon.
The belligerent woman's voice rang out again: "Where are
the others?"
Someone tried to calm her--another woman, Jill heard--who
sounded none too calm herself. "If you'll just calm
down," the woman said, "we'll find out what's going on."
"I will not calm down!" the woman exclaimed. "And I won't
be spoken to like a child. I'm a United States senator."
Jill, still trying to make sense of the scene, was
startled when a voice behind her asked: "What's going
on?"
She turned around to find a sleepy-eyed young man
standing in the aisle. The hair on his right side was
corkscrewed and pillow marks creased his right cheek.
Perhaps sixteen, thin and wiry, he wore thick glasses and
had the look of someone who had until recently, worn
braces. His lips tried to hide the metal pads. He moved
cautiously forward.
"Is something wrong with the plane?"
Jill shook her head. "I'm not sure. I don't think so." I
sure hope there isn't! she thought, looking out at the
brilliant white clouds. "Something else is wrong here,
though."
Drawing abreast her, the boy stopped, then peered out the
window. When he looked up again, his expression was
blank. He looked at his watch.
"Is it afternoon? It should be night."
"I know," she said.
Stepping into the aisle, Jill examined the cabin.
Although apparently empty now, there were signs of recent
occupation: lowered food trays, pillows wedged into
corners, books and magazines scattered about. On one seat
was a woman's' purse, and two seats over was another. She
counted three open laptop computers. On the floor at to
her feet was a spray of loose change and a man's silver
wristwatch. Feeling dislocated, she closed her eyes and
willed herself to awaken.
"Easy," the boy cautioned.
Jill sensed him move closer.
"Do you need to sit down?"
Jill opened her eyes and found his hand at her elbow.
"I'm fine," she said. "I just want to know what's going
on."
Hearing their voices, the woman in the next cabin
hollered: "Who's back there!" and Jill heard footsteps
marching toward them down the aisle.
"Uh-oh," the boy said.
The shouter appeared, a severe looking woman in her late
thirties or early forties, dressed in a severely cut,
expensive gray suit. She had short gray hair and
imperious blue eyes. Tortoise-shell glasses hung from
around her neck. She was followed haltingly by another
woman in a beige coat.
"Where are they? Where are the others?" the woman
demanded. Her face was dangerously red.
Somewhat defensively, the young man answered, "I don't.
They seem to all be gone," and took a hesitant step
backwards.
The woman harrumped. "I can see that, young man! But
where did they go?"
Intimidated by her fierce tone, the boy only shrugged.
Taking a step forward down the aisle, the severe looking
woman said: "People don't just disappear. Not off an
airplane. So either they're hiding, or someone took them
off." She suddenly let out another bellow: "I hear you
back there! Come out right now where I can see you!"
Jill and the young man both turned to look. Standing at
the divider between the mid-section and the rear of the
plane, was large black man in a brown shirt and blue
slacks. He started to speak, then started as a pretty
blonde teenager touched his arm. He stood aside to let
her through.
Pony-tailed, the girl wore a powder blue top and white
shorts. She had a very deep tan and Jill guessed her age
at seventeen. She started to speak, but was abruptly cut
off.
"Who else is back there?" the woman demanded.
The girl blinked. "No one that I saw," she said in a low,
intimidated voice. She looked behind her, then out the
window, then down at her watch. Like Jill and the young
man had done before her, she looked back out the window
in consternation.
"What is going on here?"
"The Sixty-Four Thousand Dollar question, sweety!"
Halfheartedly, Jill offered: "Maybe we landed."
The young man said, "No way! Think I would I have slept
through that? I can't believe I slept at all! And could
somebody please explain to me why it's light outside at
three o'clock in the morning?"
"Yeah," the black man said,. "What's up with that?"
With more conviction now--she could not believe anything
else could be the answer--Jill insisted: "We must have
landed then. People got off. The flight wasn't that full
to begin with and--"
She was about to say that her flight out to the west
coast three weeks before had been even less full, when
the woman flatly declared: "Changes in altitude affect my
eardrums. The pain is intense. I'd have awoken
immediately had that happened and it didn't. No.
Something else is going on."
The curtain on the far aisle suddenly pulled back, and a
head poked through. It was another young girl. "What's
all the noise?" she asked pointedly. "And where'd
everybody go?"
The woman eyed the girl distastefully and said: "If
there's any noise, young lady, it's entirely in your
head. Now come out here where we can see you."
The girl stepped forward. Perhaps sixteen, she had stiff,
bleached-blonde hair, eyes so overdone that she looked
like a startled raccoon, and way too many ear rings in
her ears. Beneath her black leather jacket was a Marilyn
Manson tee-shirt that left much of her midriff bare; she
wore badly ripped jeans. Large, ugly rings adorned each
finger--thumbs included--and there was a stud in her
right nostril. She wore a lizard-shaped stud through her
navel.
"Perhaps we should do a head count," Jill suggested.
"Find out how many of us there are." She met eyes
momentarily with the woman in the beige coat, then looked
away.
Before anyone could speak, an eighth passenger appeared.
Short, slight and prematurely balding, he wore a rumpled
blue suit and a rumpled expression. He looked tired to
the point of exhaustion. He was the last passenger aboard
American Airlines Flight 74.
"Excuse me," he said, grimly. "But does anyone see the
bigger picture here?"
Everyone stared.
The man said, impatiently: "Everyone else seems to be
missing, the flight attendants included... so who's
flying the plane?"
The rest continued to stare, but now open-mouthed. Then
the girl in the Marilyn Manson tee-shirt exclaimed, "Oh
shit!" to which the young man answered, "He's right!" and
they all headed toward the front of the airplane.
All except Jill, who sat down in the closest aisle seat.
Suddenly there was no air in the cabin and no air in her
lungs; her legs were made of rubber.
Closing her eyes, she bit the inside of her lip. "Wake
up, Jill," she whispered. "You need to wake up." When
nothing happened, she bit down even harder, tasting
blood. Panic started to rise and when a hand touched her
shoulder she almost screamed.
It was the woman in the beige jacket.
"Are you okay? The plane seems to be doing just fine
right now and we don't seem in any real danger... at
least not yet."
Jill gulped and heard a loud click .
"Where is everyone?" she whispered. The inside of her
right cheek hurt, badly. "This can't be happening... it
can't be real."
A year or two older than Jill, the woman had hazel eyes,
blonde hair, and an attractive, if not overly pretty
face. She squeezed Jill's right shoulder. "Happening or
not," she said. "We have to deal with it. Panicking won't
help."
Jill nodded, though panicky she was. "Do you think the
pilots are gone?" she asked.
The woman shrugged. "Only one way to find out." She held
out her hand and asked: "You with me?"
Jill reached out and took the woman's hand. Her knees
felt like well-oiled hinges.
"I'm Tanya," the woman said.
"Jill Cooney. Thank's for your help."
Tanya smiled. "I'm a nurse. It's what I do. Now, shall we
join the others?"
As they went forward, Jill's legs gradually strengthened;
she felt stronger and clearer in the head. In the next
cabin forward--business class, she knew--there was the
same strange profusion of notebook computers, abandoned
purses (who leaves their purse unattended? Jill thought.
Even to go to the bathroom?), loose change and abandoned
wristwatches. Beside the wheel of drink cart, which
someone had shoved into a row of seats, was a spilled cup
of coffee. The stain had dried around the edges, looking
a couple of hours old. On one of the seat-back TV's, John
Travolta with a really bad haircut blew up a bank with a
shoulder launched missile. She saw a pair of dentures on
a seat.
What is going on here?
Until now, she had operated under the assumption that the
airplane had landed--despite protestations from the rest-
-and that the other passengers had disembarked. But
this... this was...
"How could someone disappear from under a coat?" she
asked.
In one of the center three-seat rows, someone had raised
the armrests and fashioned a bed. A pair of pillows
nestled against the far seat, and draped down the length,
was a man's gray suit coat. It had settled loosely onto
the seat cushions, in the general shape of a man. The
hair on the back of her neck stood up.
"This is crazy."
"No argument from me," Tanya said.
From up front came the sound of a hand repeatedly
striking a door. The balding man's voice demanded:
"Captain? Can you hear me in there?"
There was a pause while the man awaited an answer.
"Captain? This is Frank Trafano of the National
Transportation Safety Board."
Still no answer and moments later, the pounding resumed.
"We better go forward," Tanya said.
Moving up the aisle through first-class, they joined the
others in the forward lounge. Trafano was in the narrow
hallway leading to the cockpit door. Head bent low, a
fist up, he listened for sounds inside.
Jill suddenly remembered a stewardess, standing before
that very door, greeting herself and the other passengers
aboard Flight 74. Jill had ignored her, interested only
in making her seat and sitting herself down. Then going
to sleep.
Sixteen days before, Northwest Airlines flight 701 had
taken off from Los Angeles International Airport carrying
her mother, Denise, and three hundred other passengers.
Bound for Singapore, via Hawaii--this was to have been
Denise's first vacation in five years--the Boeing 747 had
exploded in an immense fireball off the California coast,
raining debris from twenty-four thousand feet. Of course,
no one had survived.
The media had had a field day. What little information
there was, was hashed and rehashed a thousand times. No
one knew if it was terrorism, a mishap, or criminal
negligence on the part of the airline. For fifteen days,
Jill had waited through interminal anxiety and gut-
wretching pain, learning more from the newscasts
sometimes, than through official sources. Finally, she
had given up.
Suddenly her eyes erupted and Jill turned away.
Everything disappeared in a blur. Collapsing into the
first seat she found--luckily it contained no leftovers
from another passenger--Jill put her head in her hands
and began to sob.
Chapter 2
Saturday, July 20, 2013, 3:26 A.M. PDT
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
Near Springfield, Illinois
Tanya was in the aisle, hovering above her. From her
expectant expression, she had already asked a question.
"I'm, sorry," Jill said. "What did you say?"
"I asked if you were okay."
"I'm fine," Jill lied. "I just needed to rest."
"Bullshit," Tanya said softly. She squatted down beside
her. "Tell me what's going on."
Jill gave her an abbreviated history of the last three
weeks.
"I am so sorry." Tanya said. She felt Jill's head. "It's
mostly exhaustion and electrolytic imbalance. You
wouldn't believe what trauma does to the body."
Jill laughed. "Oh, yes I would." She struggled to her
feet. "I'm fine, really. Was anyone in the cockpit?"
Tanya's expression tightened. She shook her head. "The
good news is though, we do have a pilot aboard."
A surge of adrenalin hit Jill's bloodstream, quickening
her heart. "The National Transportation Board guy?"
Tanya nodded. "He's trying to get inside."
Together, they went forward again.
The group, still assembled before the cockpit door,
argued amongst themselves. As usual, the belligerent
woman held center court.
"I don't understand why we don't just break it down," she
complained. "It can't be all that strong. I'm sure you
strapping young men could do it."
Frank Trafano shook his head. "These new airliners have
Kevlar reinforced doors and walls. You may as well slam
your shoulder against a concrete wall for all the good it
will do you."
The woman scowled. "There must be a way in. What happens
in an emergency? Are the pilots going to fry?"
"Of course not," Frank said. "There's an escape hatch
inside leading to the nose wheel compartment. It's also
used to access the flight instrumentation, in the
compartment below." He studied the floor just where she
stood. Stepping forward, he indicated for the woman to
move aside, which she did with a frown. Going to one
knee, Trafano placed his fingers on the carpet and
pressed into the nap.
"Excuse me," Jill interrupted. "You can fly this plane?"
Frank didn't look up. "I've had extensive time on
aircraft of similar types," he said. "Gulfstream jets,
Lears, twin engine corporate jets. I've even flown A-
230's, the military version of the 737. I can handle this
aircraft, don't worry. What concerns me is I have no idea
where we are, how long we've been up, or how much fuel we
have left. Obviously," he said, looking at his watch, "we
can't trust the time."
"Okay!" Ms. Belligerent exclaimed. "So get on with it,
already. I, for one, have no wish to experience the Big
Bang."
Looking irritated, Frank said, "Nor do I."
Nor did Jill.
Probing a small area of the carpet, Frank said: "If I
remember right, the 767's floor hatch is right here." He
waved everyone back, except the black man in brown shirt
and blue slacks, whom he waved forward. "We need to pull
this up, okay? Give me a hand."
The black man stepped forward and the rest of them backed
into First Class. Peeling back the carpet which was held
down by velcro tape, they exposed the metal deck. A two
foot wide inset hatch was in it.
Jill felt like cheering.
"Okay," Frank said. "Let's get this thing opened."
A ring-pull with a lock was set off to one side but Frank
was unfazed. "Don't worry," he said. "This is nothing
compared to the cockpit door. I need a knife. Can
somebody get me a knife?"
From one of the galley counters, the young man picked up
a butter knife and said: "This okay?"
"Just right."
The young man handed it over. "I'm Gregory, by the way.
Gregory Stein."
"Frank Trafano. Glad to meet you, Gregory."
The two shook hands.
While Frank examined the lock, the rest of the group
traded names. Christine Tuozzo, the spiky-haired
teenager, was from L.A, visiting a cousin in the
Washington, D.C. suburb of Great Falls. Jessica Gibson,
she of the powder-blue top and immaculate white shorts,
was an L.A. native also, visiting her dad in Baltimore.
The black man, Solomon Howell, an engineer with the Jet
Propulsion Laboratory, was on his way to D.C. for a
conference.
"Catherine Montes," the belligerent woman said.
The others waited expectantly, but when she said nothing
more, Solomon finished for her.
"Four term United States senator from the great state of
California. Ranking member of the Senate Armed Services
committee. Possible Vice-Presidential candidate next
election, under Jeb Bush. Think you're constituency knows
where you are?"
Catherine gave him a withering look. "Just get the door
open, please."
Placing the knife tip in the lock, Frank twisted it hard,
managing to snap it on the first try. "Simple as that,"
he said.
"That makes me feel safe," Solomon Howell muttered.
Slipping a finger through the pull ring, Frank lifted and
twisted it to the right. The hatch popped open with a
slight puff of air, and he lifted it up.
"Yes!" Gregory exclaimed, punching the air.
Christine echoed loudly.
"Don't get over-exuburant," Catherine Montes warned.
"We're not in there yet."
Rising, Frank went to a locker and removed a flashlight
and a flat-headed, yellow-handled screwdriver. He pointed
the flashlight into the darkness below. There was a
yellow ladder.
Looking down, Jill discovered a rack full of electronic
equipment, all with flashing lights. It looked like a
telephone switching room.
"How many hatches between us and the cockpit?" Solomon
asked.
"One," Frank said, maneuvering into the hole. He turned
around and stood up. "In the bulkhead right below. It's
pressure sealed, but there shouldn't be a lock."
"What about the cockpit hatch? Can we assume it's not
locked?"
Frank said: "It should be, but very often the flight crew
leaves it open. No one wants to be digging for a key in
an emergency." He shrugged. "We'll just have to see."
"I'll pray for our good fortune," Solomon said.
As Frank started down the ladder, the others grouped
around the hatch.
"If you need anything," Solomon advised. "Just yell."
Frank grunted.
The equipment rack took up every inch of space, leaving
barely enough room to maneuver. Set into the wall between
the two compartments was an access hatch with a large
yellow sign with black lettering.
DANGER!
THIS IS A PRESSURE-SEALED HATCH
OPENING DURING FLIGHT COULD CAUSE DECOMPRESSION
OF THE AIRCRAFT.
ALWAYS VERIFY NOSE WHEEL COMPARTMENT
PRESSURIZATION BEFORE OPENING HATCH
A green lamp was illuminated beneath the sign,
indicating, Jill assumed, that the next compartment was
pressurized. Frank flipped a switch back and forth, then
looked up. "Close the hatch," he said. "Just in case."
Catherine Montes said: "Why? Think anyone else can fly
this aircraft if you're killed?"
Frank said, "I see your point," and took hold of the
handle. The door opened with a pop.
Although a waft of frigid air rose up through the open
hatch and the noise level increased markedly, the
airplane did not explode. Frank pushed through the
doorway and after locating the light switch on the other
side, waved farewell. He shut the hatch and secured it
again.
Jill wondered if they would ever see him again.
Chapter 3
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
3:44 A.M. PDT
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
Somewhere near Indianapolis
After an interminal five minute wait, the cockpit door
opened. Everyone cheered.
"Welcome," Frank said, inviting them in. He sat down and
strapped himself into the left hand seat.
Grouped around the door, each person stared tight-lipped
at the abandoned controls. On the center console was a
plastic tray with a half-eaten sandwich; the unconsumed
half lay beneath a protective plastic film. Beside it,
centered between four small dials, sat a half-empty cup
of coffee. Frank removed the tray and the Styrofoam cup
and handed them to Jill.
"Dispose of these, please."
Jill held them in her hands--she was going nowhere.
On the right hand seat lay a Rolex watch and a folded up
pair of Ray-ban sunglasses. Another watch hung in surreal
stillness from one of the throttles, which inched ever so
slightly back. The auto-pilot was engaged, making minor
course corrections, Jill supposed. Only Frank seemed
unaffected by this surreal tableau.
Slipping the headset into place, Frank looked back. "I
need a volunteer for the other seat," he said. "Anybody
with flight experience? A simulator even?"
Everyone shook their heads.
"Well, I'm not looking for a Lindbergh," he said. "If you
can take instructions, you qualify." He pointed at
Solomon Howell. "Have a seat."
Solomon took the right-hand seat and belted himself in.
Indicating two folding seats on the rear wall, Frank
said, "A third hand might be welcome, as well. Who's up
for the job?"
They looked back and forth again, and when nobody
volunteered, Frank pointed at Jessica Gibson. "You can
read and write?"
"Me?" Jessica looked thoroughly perplexed. "Sure."
"Then you can read manuals just fine. Sit down, please."
Obediently, Jessica sat down and belted herself in. She
looked very, very young and scared.
Turning back to the controls, Frank said: "The rest of
you can stay as long as you remain quiet. I need to
examine the controls."
Looking things over, he compared position and function of
each control against some checklist in his head. There
were enough dials, switches and lights, Jill thought, to
make a person cross-eyed.
"In what direction are we headed?" Catherine Montes
asked.
"Due east," Frank said, indicating a readout. "Nine-zero
degrees. Just as we should be." He double-checked the
reading against an instrument near Solomon's left knee.
They apparently matched.
"Considering the time, the sun should be directly ahead,"
the woman said. "Unrisen for another three hours, but
still there. How come it's behind us. "
Everyone, Frank included, looked around in consternation.
Leaning to his left, Frank looked out the window. He
looked at the directional readout again.
"I can't answer that," he said. "But the time is
obviously different from what shows on my watch and the
navigational controls."
"Obviously," Catherine said dryly.
"Could we be heading in the opposite direction," Solomon
asked. "West?"
"I don't see how." Frank pointed to a color display, a
representation of a map. Lines across the face traced
slowly right to left. "This tracks our flight in real
time, both with the VOR beacons and omni-direction
bearings. Also our inertial guidance system." He
indicated a group of numbers below the symbol. "The
readings say we're heading east."
There was a moment's silence.
"Where exactly are we?" Solomon asked.
"Just crossing the Indiana state line, I think." Frank
touched a bright spot on the screen. "This is
Indianapolis. Only–"
"Only what?"
"There's no corresponding VOR beacon," Frank said,
sounding disturbed. "No beacon and no omnidirectional
bearing. In fact, no signals at all." He paused. "What
the hell is going on?"
No one was brave enough to reply. Finally, Gregory asked:
"What does that mean? No signals of any kind?"
"It means we're lost," Catherine Montes said. "It means
we're lost as hell."
Frank turned around. "That is not what it means,
Catherine. Look, I understand your concern, which I
certainly share. But there are too many things going on
here to be jumping to conclusions. The last thing we need
is to doubt the controls." He hesitated. "In spite of how
they may seem."
"Well, at least tell us that we're all right," Catherine
complained. "That we're not going to crash into a
mountain top, or fall out of the air because we burned
all the fuel."
"The fuel is just fine," Frank said, pointing out a
readout on another display. "We have fuel enough to reach
Washington, and then some."
"What time are we due?" Solomon asked.
Frank looked at his watch, "About an hour and forty-five
minutes minutes. Five-thirty or so. Five-thirty our time,
anyway. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make a call."
First asking for the Airman's Information Manual--a thick
white volume beside Solomon's seat--Frank said: "I also
need the Quick Reference Manual and the Sectional
Charts." He pointed to a cabinet beside Jessica's foot.
"The cockpit checklist, if you please," he said, pointing
to a clipboard beside Solomon's right knee.
While the two men conversed, and Jessica searched through
the cabinet, Jill looked forward out the windshield.
There was a break in the clouds ahead, and through it,
she saw the ground. There had never been such a wonderful
sight. Though unwilling to admit it, some part of her had
secretly believed that land no longer existed, that they
were in fact sailing over a dreamscape of clouds, a
bottomless void waiting to swallow them up in an instant.
Seeing the ground, with its intricate patchwork of fields
and ribbon-like highways, brought her back to Earth.
Setting a dial on the center console, Frank flipped a
switch and then tapped his microphone.
"Indianapolis Center, this is American Airlines seven-
four. Over."
He waited. He looked down at the dials. He checked the
microphone again.
"Indianapolis Center, this is American Airlines flight
74, heavy. Over?" He tilted his head in concentration.
"What's the matter?" Solomon asked. "You're getting no
response?"
Frank tapped his earphone and said, "Something's wrong.
I'm not getting a thing." For a moment he fiddled with
the dials, then flipped a toggle back and forth. He blew
experimentally on the mike.
"It's working," he said. "At least through the circuit."
Looking at the panel above his head, he pushed two rocker
switches back and forth, and then pushed two red buttons.
A pair of green lights appeared. "Breaker's okay," he
said, resetting the switches. "Let's try another
frequency."
Adjusting the dial, he once again called Indianapolis
Center. While the rest looked on, increasingly anxious,
Frank adjusted the dial again. He checked the book to
verify the setting. For the first time, his voice showed
strain.
"We're not supposed to do this," he said. "But here goes.
Chicago Tracon, this is American Airlines seven-four, out
of LAX, en route IAD. I am unable to contact Indianapolis
Center. Do you copy? Over."
More perplexed by the moment, Frank repeated his message.
Then he tried two other frequencies, getting the same
result. Exasperated, he tore the earphones from his head
and growled: "What is going on!" His face was a mottled
red.
Stepping back, Jill thought: If our pilot is this
alarmed, maybe it's time for the rest of us to panic.
Catherine Montes said: "Are you sure you know what you're
doing, Frank?"
Jill heard Solomon groan. She took a step to her right,
away from the senator. She held her breath.
Twisting in his seat, Frank fixed Catherine with
magnesium flare-eyes. For a long moment, Jill thought he
would explode. Literally explode. Then, reigning himself
back under control, he said: "I should hope I know how to
set a radio frequency, ma'am. I've been doing it half my
life."
Catherine Montes remained undaunted. "First of all,
Frank, my name is not ma'am. It's Catherine. And you
don't need to address me in that tone of voice. I am not
a moron and I am not a child. I am a United States
senator." She took a deep breath. "Yes, I'm scared, and
yes we are all scared, and yes, I do have a bluff
personality. For that I apologize. But the truth is, you
do not have all the answers here, and neither does anyone
else. I suggest that you remember that. I suggest that
you all remember that."
The color had drained from Frank's face and his lips
moved in silent cursing. With a deliberate movement, he
reached overhead and flipped a switch. There was a load
pop and Jill realized he had activated a speaker.
"Hear that?" Frank asked, indicating the grill in the
ceiling.
Other than a low hum, which Jill thought might be the
electronics themselves, there was no sound.
"You should be holding your ears," Frank said. "The
volume is all the way up."
Each passenger looked around, unsure what to think of
this latest development.
"There should be background interference," he said. "Lots
of it. The spectrum is pure noise at this frequency." He
adjusted the dial in either direction. Other than a
slight whisper as the frequencies changed, there was
nothing. A knot the size of a softball formed in
Jillian's gut. She wanted to sit down.
"This is UNICOM," Frank said, switching frequencies
again. "It's used mostly by small airports and private
aircraft." He moved the drum again. "Another UNICOM band,
this one for non-towered locations. With either one,
you'd be standing in line like someone buying tickets for
a Rolling Stones concert. Worst chatter-boxes in the
world. If it's not someone yelling about his ex-wife,
it's someone crying about being lost." He moved to a
another selector, this one with a red and white cap
surrounded by a metal drum. "This is the FAA emergency
band. One-twenty-one, point five. It's monitored twenty-
four hours a day. Not getting an answer on it is like
dialing 911 in New York City, and getting a recording
saying that we're all out to lunch."
Frank toggled the switch.
"FAA Emergency, this is American Airlines flight 74, en
route Los Angeles to Washington, DC. We are declaring an
emergency. Do you copy?"
There was a small burp, no louder than a fingertip
striking skin. Nothing else. Jill would have welcomed a
damned recording.
"The radio must be out then," Catherine Montes insisted.
"Or you've got something set wrong. You can't be picking
up nothing."
"That's exactly what we're picking up," Frank said.
"Nothing. And that's just impossible."
Before Catherine could speak, Gregory said: "What you'd
expect if there were a nuclear war, maybe."
Solomon vehemently shook his head. "No! No way. There'd
be static galore if that had happened. In every different
frequency. No, this is... this is the opposite effect. As
though the source of the noise itself was gone and that
is impossible. Most of it is generated by our own sun.
And the last time I checked," he said, nodding to the
radiant sky outside the windows, "the sun was still
there."
"Then the radio must be on the fritz," Tanya said.
"Because otherwise... "
Catherine Montes finished the sentence for her: "Because
otherwise, your precious rules of nature no longer
apply."
Everyone looked around. No one said a word.
Chapter 4
Saturday, July 20, 2013, 3:55 A.M. PDT
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
Somewhere near Columbus, Ohio
"No way," Frank insisted. "It's not possible."
This was in response to a question from Tanya.
"You can fly a 767 on autopilot, even have it set up the
approach, but you need a pilot to takeoff or land. And
forget bailing out once the aircraft reaches altitude,"
he said. "It would decompress the plane. At low altitude,
maybe, but the cabin would be a wreck."
"The cabin is a wreck," Christine Tuozzo observed.
"That's not what I meant."
To which Catherine replied: "Which means the pilots are
with everyone else. Hiding down below."
This woman, Jill thought, really does have a one-track
mind.
"Maybe we're looking at this all wrong," Jessica said. "I
mean, wouldn't it make sense if the world had ended?"
Solomon said, "I already explained that. Besides, if a
war had taken place, we wouldn't be here to discuss it."
"EMP, you mean." Frank said.
"Yes."
"What is EMP?"
"Electromagnetic pulse. It happens when a nuclear weapon
fires off. Wrecks everything electronic within hundreds
of miles."
"Everything working at the time," Solomon corrected.
"Right."
"But what about--" Jessica tried to say.
Frank cut her off. "Our flight path took us near half a
dozen major military installations. Not to mention Las
Vegas, Denver, and Colorado Springs. We'd have gone down
seconds after any nuclear explosion. And as you can
see... " he swept his hand over the instruments. "We're
doing just fine."
"That's not what I meant," Jessica objected. "I'm talking
about the Rapture."
Gregory blinked. "The what?"
"The Rapture," Jessica repeated. "As in the Holy Bible.
Maybe it happened while we were asleep. Maybe everyone
but us was taken away."
Solomon--and everyone else--looked at her skeptically.
"I'm just trying to keep an open mind, okay? So far, no
one has offered a better suggestion."
Catherine, looking very annoyed, said: "Fat chance."
"Why not?" Christine retorted. "She could be right, you
know. Maybe you're just too pig-headed to listen."
"Miss--I'm sorry, what was your name?" Frank asked.
"Christine."
"Well, Christine, I for one don't believe I'd be left
behind. I'm a devout Christian--you have to be in my line
of work--and if God in his wisdom chose to leave me
behind, I'd be sorely pissed."
"So would I," Solomon Howell agreed.
Jessica, who was growing red-faced with embarrassment,
argued: "I'm a devout Christian too, but maybe I've done
enough bad things since my last confession to get myself
booted out. Although I doubt it," she said, shrugging
sheepishly. "I lead a pretty boring life."
"You don't go to Heaven for being a bore, hon," Christine
said. "You go there for your faith."
Frank waved his hand. "Enough. We can find a plausible
reason later on. Right now we have a decision to make."
Catherine Montes said: "Which is?"
"Land in Washington, or find another location closer."
Catherine Montes' face tightened. Before she could
object, however, Solomon asked: "What are the advantages
of that?"
"Well, to save fuel, for one. And I'd rather put down
under conditions I know. It's perfect visibility here...
who knows what Washington is like. We could find
ourselves in a snow storm or something else." Frank
hesitated, than added: "And there's another problem."
"What now?" Catherine demanded.
Looking at her askance, Frank said, "Our ground speed is
really lagging behind. Badly." He pointed out a display.
"We're clocking just over five hundred and forty knots.
It should be six-hundred at least. The winds blow west-
to-east this time of year, giving us a sixty knot tail
wind."
"And it's not?"
Frank shrugged. "It seems to have vanished."
Catherine sighed. "Just one more thing."
Crossing his arms, Solomon looked out the window. "This
is really messed up."
For a time, no one spoke. They flew through perfectly
clear skies, the ground below stretching away into the
crisp blue distance. Directly below, a highway traced an
almost perfectly straight line toward the approaching
mountains.
Those must be the Appalachians, Jill thought. It was four
a.m.
"What about other aircraft?" Solomon asked.
"There are none," Frank said, distractedly. "We've got
the sky to ourselves."
"Fuel?" Solomon tried, "In case we do go to D.C. and it
bombs out. How far can we go?"
Frank just stared ahead, massaging his right temple.
Finally he roused himself. "We have plenty. Almost
twenty-four thousand pounds. Enough to get us to New York
if we have to. But the truth is, I don't want this plane
under fourteen thousand pounds. That's an hour's worth of
flight time. Any lighter than that, and I'm going to get
very worried."
"Okay," Solomon said. "So what about these other
airports?"
Opening the sectional chart, Frank placed it on his lap.
"To land this thing, we need a minimum fifty-eight
hundred feet. I've never flown this particular beast
before, so let's tack fifty-percent onto that. Anything
less than eight thousand feet is out of the question." He
looked in the Airman's Information Manual. "I'll call off
each of these locations, state-by-state and you give me
the length." He showed Solomon the proper number.
Right away, four nearby airports--two of which were
behind them--flunked the test.
Frank said, "Cincinnati is to our south, but the runway
there is too short. Which basically leaves Cleveland or
Pittsburgh. Either of these airports we can reach in
about half an hour." He looked at the group. "The good
news is, I'm familiar with both. I've landed there a
number of times."
Jill immediately clapped her hands and a small cheer went
up. The celebration ended just as abruptly, however, when
Catherine inquired: "And the bad news is?"
Frank made no attempt to hide his irritation. "Cleveland
is on the lake, and according to the last weather
forecast, conditions there were iffy. Scattered
thunderstorms and a ceiling of one thousand feet. Not the
best conditions to be landing in. And that was three
hours ago."
Trying to sound upbeat, Jill said: "The weather could
have changed."
"For the worse, yes. It almost always does. I've seen
thunderheads over Cleveland a hundred-thousand feet high.
And the FLR--forward looking radar--only has an effective
range of one-hundred and twenty miles. We're twice that
far away. By the time we got there, Cleveland could be
totally socked in."
"You're pissing me off, Frank," Catherine growled. "You
and your sour news."
Solomon intervened: "What about Pittsburgh?"
"Pittsburgh is better. It lies within a deep valley and
the weather there is stabler. The forecast was for broken
clouds at ten-thousand feet, light north-westerly winds."
"Then I vote for Pittsburgh!" Christine exclaimed. "All
those in favor–"
"I'm glad you think this is a democracy!" Frank snapped.
"It's not that simple!"
"Goddammit, Frank, if you don't make a goddamned
decision--"
"I want to go home," Jill interjected. It came out so low
and so soft that no one even heard.
"--I will fly this airplane myself!"
"Catherine!" Solomon exclaimed.
"Save me the lecture, Mr. Engineer! I make critical
decisions all day long, day in and day out. Decisions
affecting peoples lives. If this overgrown boy-toy can't
make up his mind--"
"I want to go home," Jill repeated.
"What?"
"Washington is my home," she said. "If conditions on the
ground are anything like they are up here--"
Everyone began to argue.
"--then I want to experience them there. Not in
Pittsburgh. Not in Cleveland, Ohio. I want to go home."
Christine said: "Well, if it comes to a choice between a
safe landing, and inconveniencing someone waiting on the
ground, I vote for the safe landing."
Jill had heard enough. She turned around and walked out
of the cockpit, tears burning her eyes. Returning to her
seat in the rear of the plane, she sat down and fastened
the seat belt.
Let the others argue, she thought. What difference does
it make anyway? Something extremely bizarre was going on
here and Jill suspected that, given the indications they
already had, life down on the streets and highways of
America was no less bizarre. It wasn't something she
wanted to consider too hard. After a few minutes, Tanya
joined her.
"Congratulations. You won."
Jill shook her head. "I only offered my opinion."
"Well, it worked. Everyone concurred. Catherine
especially championed your position."
Jill was surprised. The woman was so contrary. "Of all
the people on this aircraft," she said, "why just the
eight of us left?"
Tanya looked caught off-step, then shrugged. "Something
to do with sleep, I imagine."
Jill started to object.
"Think about it," she said. "Gregory and Catherine both
were asleep, I heard them say so. I was out like a light-
-I pulled a double shift before flying out--and you and
Frank certainly looked exhausted. What else could we have
in common? ."
"I was asleep," Jill concurred. She suddenly remembered a
snatch of her dream... something with stainless steel
shark's teeth whirring like a chain saw... it made her
shudder. "But I'd have thought more people would have
been asleep than us. Shouldn't there have been more?"
"I can answer that," Gregory said. He sat down in one of
the seats opposite. Christine passed by and sat down two
rows behind him and took off her coat. Gregory watched
her distractedly for a moment, looking away quickly when
she looked up. Then he continued.
"Most people take time to settle in," he said. "Some
can't settle in at all. I went out the minute we left the
ground, but that's an exception. I usually don't sleep at
all. Way too nervous."
"Okay, then,"Jill said. "Let's consider that's true." She
thought to ask Christine whether she also was asleep,
but, nibbling on a pretzel, the girl stared sullenly out
the window.
You can do better than that, she thought, considering
Gregory's hesitant interest. Even up here.
"So what significance did that have?" she continued. "Did
it save us? Or did being awake doom the other passengers?
And where did they go?"
Gregory shrugged. Tanya did also. Christine surprised
them by speaking up.
"We flew through some kind of a portal," she said.
Gregory turned in his seat. "A portal?"
"Yes."
"What kind of a portal?"
One corner of Christine's mouth tugged down in
irritation. "The kind of portal that put us where we are
now, stupid!" she snapped, before returning to her sullen
examination of the clouds.
Gregory turned away, looking stung.
Jill sighed. She watched Catherine enter the First Class
cabin ahead and sit down a few rows in. She carried a
white plastic food tray with a plastic film lid. She had
discovered the in-flight meal, it seemed. Peeling back
the plastic film, she picked at the contents with a
plastic forth, ignoring the others. Jill could not
imagine eating right now, much less airline food. Even
First Class airline food.
Gregory looked at his watch. "An hour to go."
When no one answered, he tried: "What about the "landing
the airplane and taking everyone off," scenario?"
Tanya said, "If they drugged everyone on board and left
the eight of us alone, I suppose. But who are "they" and
why would they do that? And who piloted the aircraft when
it took off again? Is he here now?"
Gregory looked around the cabin, then down at the floor.
"Catherine's right about one thing. There's plenty of
room below. If the cargo holds were empty."
Again, Tanya asked: "But why?"
Christine spoke up. "It's some kind of goddamned
experiment, that's why. The military, the CIA, Homeland
Security... who knows. I wouldn't put anything past those
assholes. At the FBI academy they send new recruits out
to follow the local population, I read. Surveillance
training," she said sarcastically. "And as far as the
pilot? I think he's still right here with us."
"Who?" Gregory said. He lowered his voice. "You don't
mean Frank?"
Christine gave him a withering look. "Of course I mean
Frank. And that other fellow too, maybe. Solomon. They
could both be in on it."
Tanya, keeping her voice level, asked: "You're suggesting
that a government agency drugged all of the passengers on
our plane, landed us at some remote location, off-loaded
everyone but us, dressed the interior of the plane to
look like everyone had disappeared mid-flight and then
woke us up again? As a test? Not to mention that they
doctored all the instruments, shut off all the radars and
radios on the ground, and banned all other air-traffic
within hundreds of mile?"
Christine grinned tightly. "So what did happened then?"
Tanya answered only with silence.
"I thought so," Christine said, and went back to her
pretzels.
Chapter 5
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
4:50 A.M. PDT
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
Somewhere near Washington, D.C.
"So I guess we're all agreed then," Gregory said,
sometime later. "We were asleep." He cast a glance at
Christine, expecting a sarcastic remark. Christine
remained silent.
Tanya said, "I've been on these late flights before and
they're all the same. The first half-hour or so, it's
passengers trying to settle in, getting the kids to
sleep, attendants passing out drinks, blankets and
pillows. Half an hour after that, everyone but the
overachievers are out." She looked pointedly around at
the scattering of open, laptop computers.
Gregory stretched. "Well, I was certainly gone," he said.
"I've been up every night this week, getting ready. I
hardly slept at all."
"Getting ready for what?" Christine asked.
Gregory lowered his arms. His expression grew cautious.
"I have a summer internship in the U.S. congress," he
said. "Our high school debate team won the national
award, and part of the prize was two weeks during the
summer working for our local congressman." A quick look
forward told Jill that the young man was grateful it
wasn't internship in the U.S. Senate. "Anyway, three of
us were flying out last Wednesday, but because of a death
in the family, I missed my flight." He looked glumly at
the floor. "I certainly wish I had made it now."
The look of annoyance on Christine's face momentarily
lessened. For a moment, Jill thought she might even offer
a word of solace, but then her expression hardened again
and she went back to looking out the window.
Tanya said, "I'm sure we all wish we were another flight,
Gregory."
Jill asked, "Assuming it wasn't a plot, and that we
didn't land somewhere, what happened to the others
passengers?"
Before anyone could venture a guess, the intercom popped.
"This is Frank, ladies and gentlemen. In the next few
minutes, I'll be performing a number of simple maneuvers
to get the feel of the plane. I won't do anything
radical... just some easy turns and a few changes in
altitude." There was a brief pause, during which Jill
heard a muffled conversation between he and Solomon.
"First thing we'll do is a two-minute turn. This turns us
in a three hundred and sixty-degree circle--"
"As if there were any other kind," Catherine Montes
observed. She had left First Class for the more suburban
environs of economy. And the other passengers, of course.
"--which allows me to verify compass heading and
function. I'd like everyone to sit down now and buckle
themselves in, just to be safe."
The Fasten Seat Belt signs above the aisle seats chimed
on, drawing a chuckle from Catherine Montes.
"Okay," Frank announced. "Here goes."
For the first time since awakening, Jill felt the
aircraft move. The left wing dipped slightly, and she
sensed a shift in her center of gravity. She gripped the
armrests tightly. Her heart rate soared. If she were this
frightened during a simple maneuver, she thought, what
would happen during landing?
"We're halfway through the turn, ladies and gentlemen,
and so far, everything's just fine. Both compasses are
tracking correctly and so is the INS computer. Once we
resume out original heading, I'll take control of the
plane."
"Do you really have to do that?" Jill whispered. She
looked around to see if anyone had heard. Tanya smiled at
her reassuringly.
The aircraft righted itself, and everyone sighed.
"Okay," Frank said. "We're back on course. I'm going to
descend a bit now and then come back to level. You'll
feel this, but the maneuver will be nice and gentle."
"What time is it?" Jill asked. She was afraid to look at
her watch.
"Five-oh-eight," said Gregory. "Twenty minutes to go."
"We don't need a count-down, young man," Catherine
grumbled. "We'll know plenty well when to start
screaming."
The nose of the plane dipped hard enough to make Jill's
stomach lurch.
"Whoa!" Gregory croaked. "What was that?"
"That was a little more angle than I had intended," Frank
said, hurriedly. "Sorry. Won't happen again."
"Nice of you to own up," Catherine groused.
For ten seconds the nose remained down, then, with more
care, Frank leveled the aircraft off. Then they were
climbing again and, after dipping the wings slightly side
to side, Frank leveled back off.
"We'll begin our descent now, ladies and gentlemen.
You'll feel a reduction in speed as I throttle back. In
about five minutes I'll deploy the air-brakes, and that
you should feel as well. Any final maneuvering we'll do
once we're in the airport's vicinity. Believe me, this
767 handles like a dream and I doubt we'll have any
further surprises along the way. Frank out."
True to his word, Frank reduced power, and the aircraft
began to slow. Catherine rose and moved down the aisle,
taking the seat directly ahead of Gregory. She buckled
herself in.
Gregory looked relieved that she had chosen not to sit
beside him.
"Any bets on our going around?" Catherine asked.
Tanya said, "Catherine, this is hard enough without you
second-guessing every move. Frank said he'd get us down,
and I for one believe him. He seems like a very reliable
man."
Catherine grinned. "We'll find out soon enough. And the
offer's still open."
Nobody placed a bet.
The airplane took a sudden, jolting bounce.
"Jesus!" Gregory cried. "What was that?"
"Turbulence," said Tanya, calmly."We've all felt it
before. Just relax."
The aircraft took another, harder bounce and suddenly
shuddered sidewards. Catherine laughed and Jill clamped
her armrests tight.
"Nothing to worry about, folks," Frank said, over the
intercom. "Just normal clear air turbulence. We're doing
just fine." He maintained a running commentary and bit by
small bit, the knot in Jill's stomach relaxed. "Ten
minutes to go, fifteen minutes tops. There's a few
scattered clouds ahead, otherwise, the skies are clear."
Jill heard Solomon speak in the background and then Frank
said: "Just to let you all know, I tried Washington
Center one last time, and Dulles approach. No luck with
either. It seems that whatever is going on up here, has
happened on the ground. But the airplane is handling
five-by-five and everything is green across the board. So
just sit tight and we'll be on the ground in... well,
before you know it, Catherine."
"Fuck you, Frank," Catherine Montes whispered while
everyone else laughed..
Ten thousand feet came and went; there was a low,
mechanical whirr.
"That's the air brakes you feel, ladies and gentlemen.
Next, I'll lower the flaps. I'll let you know when."
Jill turned to Tanya. "Why were you coming to
Washington?" she asked.
Tanya hesitated a moment, then said: "Trying to salvage a
relationship that's probably unsalvageable."
"Oh," Jill said. She had asked only to get her mind off
the descent. Now she wished she hadn't. Sneaking a look
at Tanya's left hand, she saw there was no band on her
third finger.
"We've been on the outs for months," Tanya said. "She
went to visit her mom in D.C., two weeks ago and--
whoops!" Tanya looked chagrined. "Well, I guess I gave
that away. Anyway, she didn't came back and now you
know."
Jill was perplexed. Her strange attraction to Tanya was
hard enough to deal with. Knowing that she was gay--or
bisexual at least--made it that much worse. And somehow,
she knew there was more to the story than that.
"What's your friend's name?" she finally asked.
"Claire."
"Is she a nurse?"
Tanya laughed. "Real estate agent. She sold me my house.
That's how we met," she said, breaking into a sad smile.
The 767 took another hard, jolting hop and, gripping the
armrests, Jill asked: "How long were you two together?"
Tanya sighed. "Would have been three years next week. Two
months ago, she decided things were no longer to her
liking and I couldn't convince her otherwise. Two weeks
ago, she up and left." She shrugged. "Can't say I really
blame her. I'm not the easiest person in the world to get
along with.
Jill understood. If there was one thing she knew about,
it was unsalvageable relationships.
"Five thousand feet, ladies and gentlemen," Frank
announced. "I'm extending the wing flaps now, so expect
another noticeable drop in speed."
Jill heard the mechanical whine and confirmed out the
window that the flaps were in fact, extending. The
aircraft slowed.
"I can see the airport!" Gregory exclaimed. He unbelted
and moved across the aisle to the window seat behind
Jill. "It's right ahead! I can see the runways."
Christine switched seats as well, pressing her face
against the window directly behind Gregory's. She made no
comment, but withdrew a crumpled pack of Marlboro's from
her jacket pocket, and shook one loose. "Anyone care if I
smoke?"
Jill, for one, would have loved a smoke. She had never
lit up.
Catherine said dryly: "Light up two if that helps."
Christine put the cigarette between her lips and was
about to light up when Frank came on the intercom. "Okay,
everyone. Time to lower the gear. You'll feel a good
bump--" the gear lowered with a thud and the aircraft
slowed "--as it locks into place. I'm lined up with
Runway 12, which runs west to east. We should be down in
less than two minutes. I'll leave the intercom on so you
can listen in."
"Great," Catherine said. "We get to hear ourselves die."
The aircraft suddenly jolted and skidded right, making
the door of the overhead compartment above Jill pop open.
A flight bag and two briefcases fell out, thudding into
the aisle by her feet. The deck canted steeply and to the
right and there was a load crash forward, followed by the
sound of breaking glass.
"What was that!" Gregory cried. "Are we crashing?"
Jill's chest spasmed and she heard herself begin to keen.
Then Tanya had her hand squeezed tightly in her own and
she said: "It's okay. It's just turbulence. Take deep
breaths and hold them a while."
Jill did as instructed. "I don't want to die," she
moaned.
"We're not going to," Tanya assured her. The confidence
in her voice made Jill feel better... until aircraft
shuddered and from behind, sounded another loud crash.
"What is going on?" Christine cried out. "Are we going to
crash?"
Tanya said loudly: "It's just turbulence! Buckle yourself
up!"
On the next bad jolt Gregory deserted his window seat and
scrambled back across the aisle. He strapped himself in,
looking absolutely petrified. Christine did the same,
stubbing her cigarette out on the top of the no-longer-
functional ashtray of her armrest. Her face, now totally
white, made the raccoon effect of her heavy black
eyeliner almost comical.
Over the intercom, Frank was having problems. "Get the
gear up!" he shouted. "Flaps up too!"
There was a whir and the landing gear thumped home.
"Everybody stay calm!" he yelled. "The plane is under
control!" There was a brief, heated exchange between
Solomon and himself--Jill heard Jessica squealing in the
background--and then the nose pulled up sharply, pressing
her deeply into her seat.
"There we go!" Frank said. "There we go, now." There was
undisguised relief in his voice. "We hit a pocket of
turbulence, ladies and gentlemen, much greater than I had
expected. Rather than chance landing too hard, I decided
to go around."
Catherine laughed. Over the intercom, Solomon and Jessica
both laughed. They sounded as petrified as Gregory had
looked. Then Jessica coughed and began to sob.
What had Frank been thinking? Jill wondered. A child in
the cockpit?
"If that happens again!" Catherine suddenly yelled out.
"I will personally throw you out of this aircraft! Do you
hear me, Frank Trafano?"
There was a momentary silence and then everyone laughed--
including Frank up front in the cockpit--and Jill's blood
pressure dropped. It still took effort to breath, but at
least her lungs worked. Then she hiccuped loudly, and
everyone, Catherine included, laughed again. Jill turned
bright red
"Threats on a pilot's life are a federal offense,
Catherine," Frank commented dryly over the intercom:
"I'll have to report you once we're on the ground. In
fact, I might have them to take you off in handcuffs."
Catherine growled: "Your not going to live through this,
Frank Trafano. Even if we do land this plane."
The 767 settled into a soft, left-handed bank, and
everyone relaxed. Christine released her seat belt and
stood up in the aisle. She looked toward the rear of the
plane. "Another fucking drink cart," she pronounced,
sitting back down. She lit another cigarette but her
hands shook badly.
The aircraft resumed level flight.
Releasing Tanya's hand, Jill said, "Keep that handy,
okay? I might need it again."
Tanya laughed warmly. "I rent by the hour, okay? But I do
offer discounts and reservations as well."
Catherine, as though offended by any attempt at levity
under the circumstances, warned: "Don't get complacent
just yet, kiddies. It's not over until we hit the ground
and the last time I looked, we were still in the air."
"Don't remind me," Gregory muttered.
"Catherine," Tanya sighed. "You are such a well of
optimism. Remind me not to vote for you next term."
Catherine barked out a laugh. "If we get down in one
piece, honey, I'll fill out your ballot myself. But the
way it looks now, I'm not sure who I'll run against."
The aircraft once again banked right.
"Okay," Frank said. "Rather than circle completely
around, I've lined up with Runway 19L, which runs north
to south. It's longer by fifteen hundred feet, which is
better anyway. This time, I promise a more gentle
approach."
Catherine mumbled something indecipherable. Gregory,
unbelting himself and moving back across the aisle, took
up watch at his port-side window. Christine stayed where
she was. Blowing out smoke, she asked: "Anything there?"
"Buildings, roads, cars. Only... "
"Only what?"
Gregory looked around. "Nothing's moving. Nothing at all.
Anywhere."
"That's impossible," Tanya said. She rose from her seat
and joined Gregory at the window. They both looked out.
Jill, deciding she had as much fear as she could handle,
chose not to join them.
"Okay, folks," Frank announced. "Here we go again. Flaps
down."
The flaps extended and the gear lowered again and Jill
heard a steady drone of conversation from the front. Then
Tanya returned to her seat and took Jill's hand. This
time it was she who needed reassuring.
"Gregory's right. Everything's down there, but nothing is
moving." She looked at Jill with worry-filled eyes. "The
roads are totally deserted. Parking lots are empty. It's
like everyone just left the state."
Continuing its slow descent, the aircraft stayed nose-
level, free of buffeting this time. Landscape became
visible outside the windows; most of what Jill saw was
power lines, trees and the tops of distant buildings.
Frank made one last attempt at contact: "Dulles Tower,
this is American Airlines Flight 74, over?"
No answer, just the same spooky silence.
"Well, folks, I'm going to concentrate on getting this
bird down. We'll face what we face once we're on the
ground. Good luck to us all."
"Amen," Gregory whispered.
The intercom clicked off.
For a time, there was only the sound of the engines and
the passing air. Christine stubbed her cigarette out and
gripped her armrests.
"Everyone strapped in?" Tanya asked.
Everyone's belt was cinched.
"I don't want to hear another word until we land,"
Catherine commanded.
"No problem there," Gregory whispered and indeed, his
words were the last spoken until the main undercarriage
touched the ground.
Looking out the window to her left, Jill caught the red
and white structure of a radio tower flash by, then a row
of poles. Then they were over the runway and the huge
terminal with its convex roof hove into view. A pair of
smaller jet aircraft sat on one of the aprons close at
hand and beyond them, a larger United Airlines jet.
Smaller aircraft were scattered everywhere about.
Absolutely nothing moved.
At the same moment that the mid-field concourse building
appeared, the landing gear touched down and the aircraft
took one soft bounce and then settled to the ground. Jill
gripped Tanya's hand so tightly that it made her jump.
Tanya didn't complain or let go. Although it seemed
forever, the nose wheel finally touched as well and then
there was a thunderous roar as the engines reversed
thrust and Frank applied the brakes hard. The aircraft
decelerated quickly.
"We're down," Jill whispered. "We are down."
Tanya squeezed her hand tightly.
When they had slowed to maneuvering speed, the 767 swung
to the right and rolled onto a taxi-way and then turned
around. Everyone breathed again. Then the intercom
clicked on.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Frank said. "Welcome to
Washington, D.C."
The applause was instantaneous and loud. Jill clapped so
furiously that it stung her palms. Tanya embraced her in
a massive hug, and before she could stop herself, Jill
kissed her hard on the lips. When she came away again,
shocked, her face was very hot. Tanya stared, then broke
into wonderful laughter.
"Welcome home," she said.
Indeed.
Chapter 6
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
5:32 A.M. PDT (8:32 A.M. EDT)
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
Dulles International Airport,
Washington, D.C.
The euphoria was short-lived.
Rolling along at a leisurely pace, the 767 headed for the
mid-field concourse. A parallel runway was to their left,
a large number "1L" painted at its end. Beyond it were
half a dozen hangars and smaller buildings. There was no
sign of activity. In fact, the opposite was true. The
place looked like a huge, still-life painting. There was
no sense of depth to the buildings, no sense of three-
dimensions at all. Everything looked totally flat. Jill
blinked, but the effect remained. The knot in her stomach
tightened.
"This is so totally weird," Gregory said. He moved to the
opposite side of the aircraft and stared out. "What's
with the buildings? They look like pictures in a book."
Christine joined him. "There's no one in the building
ahead," she announced, "and there's not a soul outside.
It's still pretty far away, but I'd swear the terminal is
empty too."
"That's impossible," Catherine said. "I won't accept
that."
Christine grunted: "Come see for yourself."
A quarter of a mile long, the mid-field concourse was
home to a dozen aircraft with American Airlines markings,
all parked neatly against jet-ways; where service
personnel would normally be loading fuel, piloting
baggage trains, and delivering food, there was not a
soul.
The airplane suddenly halted.
"What's he doing now," Catherine groused. "We're still a
hundred yards away from the concourse."
Frank's voice came over the intercom to explain: "Sorry,
ladies and gentlemen. I didn't mean to stop so abruptly,
but I don't like what I'm seeing out there."
"Join the club," muttered Gregory.
"We're staying right here where we are," Frank said.
"With room to maneuver. I don't want to have to back this
baby up."
Gregory added Frank's unspoken words. "In case of a needy
escape."
"Dream on, young man." Catherine Montes muttered. "No
one's ever getting me off the ground again."
As it happened, Catherine Montes was absolutely right.
*
Standing inside the forward galley, they waited for Frank
to finish up. The engines wound down, and the 767 became
uncomfortably silent.
"Where is everyone?" Jessica asked, stepping out of the
cockpit. Her eyes indicated she didn't really want to
know.
Frank called out: "I'm leaving the APU on. There's no way
to tell if the power's on out there or not, and I'm
damned if I'll leave restarting the engines up to a
battery."
"What's an APU?" Jill asked.
"Auxiliary Power Unit," Solomon said. "We'll need it to
get the engines started again." He paused, looking at
Catherine Montes. "Should the need arise."
"By all means," Gregory agreed. "Keep the APU running."
Then Frank appeared and a second round of applause went
up. He scowled. "Find something to be excited about here,
and I'll join in. Until then, let's refrain." He looked
at the starboard hatch. "Let's get this open, okay? I
want to smell fresh air."
Set into the surface of the door was a long yellow
handle; Frank had just gripped it and started to push
down, when Gregory reached out.
"How do we know it's safe?" he asked. "What if the air's
like, poisoned or something? Radioactive?"
"You're breathing it now," Frank answered. "Now please,
step aside."
Frank lowered the handle and with a slight pop of
depressurization, the door released. Holding it back in
mid-swing, Frank looked about. He took an experimental
sniff. Then he pushed the door back to its locked
position and warned: "Don't get to close to the edge.
It's a twenty foot drop."
Catherine approached the door. She sniffed the air as
well. She blinked and her nose wrinkled. "There is
something wrong with the air," she proclaimed. "Smells
stale, like a closed-up room."
Solomon said, "Lifeless."
To Jill, the smell was...
There is no smell, she thought. It's like breathing air
out of a tank.
Frank dismissively waved his hand. "Whatever the smell,"
he said, "it's breathable. That's all that matters. Now,
let's get out of here, shall we?"
"How?" Jessica wanted to know. She looked at the tarmac
below. "There aren't any stairs."
Frank ushered them away from the door. "Down the
inflatable ramp. I'm sure you've seen them before on TV."
He knelt and prepared to deploy the slide. He stopped
when Tanya asked: "What about the hatch in the nose wheel
compartment, Frank? Can we use that?"
Frank looked momentarily hesitant, then relieved. "Good
idea. Keep us from having to jettison the ramp." Grasping
the handle, he pulled the door shut again. Then he went
into the cockpit.
"This will take just a moment," he said. "Be right back."
Raising the floor hatch, he lowered himself into the
hole, cursing softly when something got snagged. A moment
later he switched on a light and called up: "Almost
there!" There were two soft thuds, and a mechanical clank
which Jill assumed was the ladder dropping down. Frank
reappeared in the hatch.
"Normally, I'd say ladies first," he said. "But in this
case, Gregory or Solomon might be a better idea. Just to
be safe."
Solomon motioned Gregory ahead and, looking at the
others, Gregory smiled bravely, climbed into the hole and
and started to descend. Solomon went next. A few moments
later, Frank's head reappeared and he beckoned Jessica
forward. She approached the hole with a look of dread.
After a false start, she made her way down. Then it was
Christine's turn.
"This really sucks," she said. "I didn't want to be here
in the first place." She zipped her coat closed and
rubbed the sides of her jeans. She looked from Tanya to
Jill. "See you in the outside world," she said.
"We're right behind you," Tanya encouraged.
With Frank motioning impatiently, Christine disappeared
into the hole.
"Catherine next. Then Jill. Tanya last."
Grumbling, Catherine descended the ladder, then Jill took
her place. Tanya extended a hand, which Jill gratefully
accepted. For a moment their eyes met and Jill felt that
stab of attraction again. Then she looked away.
"Come on, and watch your head," Frank cautioned, guiding
her down. She had to duck beneath a low spar. With Frank
beside her, it was a very cramped fit. "Be careful of the
cabling," he said.
Sitting on the narrow edge of the coaming, Jill swung her
legs free and began to descend. Then she stopped.
"What do you mean before?" she inquired. "When you told
Gregory we were breathing it now. The air, I mean?"
Although looking irritated, Frank explained. "The air in
the cabin is circulated with fresh air from outside. It's
compressed by the engines and bled into the air-
conditioning system. We've been breathing it since
leaving L.A."
"Oh," she said, still feeling unsettled.
He looked at her with impatience.
"Don't you feel it, Frank?"
"Feel what?"
"That it's difficult to breath. Like being trapped inside
a smoky room."
Frank shook his head. "It's just the exertion," he said.
"Anxiety. That alone could account for the feeling."
"I didn't feel it earlier, while we were aloft."
Frank was caught up short. "I... " he began to say, but
he didn't have an answer.
"What's the hold-up there, people?" Catherine Montes
called. "We have an airport to explore. Time to chit-chat
later."
Shrugging, Frank helped Jill down the ladder. She stepped
onto the concrete apron, not sure that solid ground was
where she wished to be.
"Having a tea-party, were we?" Catherine asked.
Jill smiled, tightly. "Dissecting the Cheshire Cat."
"First disembodied smile I see," Christine said, "I'm
running like hell."
Me too, Jill thought. Except for the steady drone from
the rear of the aircraft, which she assumed was the APU,
she heard not a single sound.
"It's like being in a sound-proof room," Gregory said,
turning around in a circle. "I can hear myself
breathing."
Jill realized this was true. She also realized that the
two-dimensional effect had not let up. Everything still
looked flat.
Clutching herself across the chest, Christine said: "No
birds, no wind blowing, no nothing."
Descending the stairs, Tanya stood on the apron, looking
around. Jill moved silently up beside her. Frank was last
out of the plane.
"Come on," he said, heading for the mid-field concourse.
"Let's see what goes."
Setting off as a group, Frank leading and Tanya and Jill
trailing behind, the eight members of Flight 74 made
their way toward the long, low building. Jessica and
Solomon talked quietly together, looking cautiously
around, while Gregory and Christine walked side by side
as well, though not conversing. Though she obviously
considered him a geek, Christine seemed in need of his
company,
"David Duchovny and Tea' Leoni, they're not," Tanya said
of the odd couple, though not unkindly.
Jill laughed. She judged Tanya to be older than she had
originally thought, probably in her early thirties. She
appeared quite fit. Her blue eyes were set either side of
a long, straight nose, and she had high and distinctive
cheekbones. Her chin was almost too strong, Jill thought.
She found herself wanting to stare.
Up ahead, Gregory asked, "How do we get in? With security
nowadays, I can't imagine just walking into an airport
door."
"There's always a way in," Frank said. He surveyed the
side of the building. "You need a swipe card to access an
outside door, but there are bays and service entrances.
If nothing else, we'll find a rock and break out a
window."
Suddenly, Christine waved her hand. "It's not hot," she
said. "Or muggy. Today's the twentieth of July and it
should be unbearably hot. But it feels like a spring day.
No... it doesn't feel like anything at all."
Gregory said, "Think that's weird? Look at the horizon."
Everyone looked. The horizon was sharp as a razor,
perfectly clear. "When was the last time you saw that in
July?" he asked.
Across the apron, perhaps two hundred yards away, was a
very large hangar. In the far right corner was a built-
out office structure with a flagpole either side. Jill
noted the twins flags dangling limp at the tops. They
could have been made from bronze.
Catherine Montes said: "Will you stop with the
sightseeing, already! Let's find a way inside and make
some calls. It does us no good standing around discussing
the weather." She strode away at a crisp pace, arms
swinging purposefully at her sides.
"That woman," Christine said. "Has a serious hemorrhoid
problem."
No one disagreed.
Reaching the building first, Catherine went directly to
the closest door, a service entrance. Printed on the
glass was the following inscription:
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
ONLY PROPERLY CREDENTIALED AMERICAN AIRLINES
EMPLOYEES BEYOND THIS POINT.
Gregory said, "Maybe some big-assed guard will come out
and whack her over the head with a night stick."
"We can only hope," Christine said. "I'd be happy to see
anyone right now."
Catherine grasped the doorknob firmly in her hand and
yanked the door wide open.
"Son-of-a-bitch," Gregory muttered.
Giving a triumphant smile, Catherine marched right
through the door.
"Catherine wait!"
Taking off at a run, Frank reached the closing door just
as it slammed shut and wrenched it back open. On his
face, relief and anger battled for control.
"Catherine! Come the hell back out here!"
Catherine was halfway down the dimly lit, narrow
corridor. She turned, hands on her hips. "Are you waiting
for a written invitation?" she asked.
Tanya called out, "Let's not be hasty here, Catherine.
For all we know, this hallway is a dead end. There are
security doors all over the place. We don't want to be
getting trapped."
"Yeah," Gregory muttered. "No 911."
Examining the lock, Solomon said, "Must be the power.
Off, the lock won't engage. Would have thought it just
the opposite, though."
Mounted on the wall halfway down the corridor was a red
and white fire-extinguisher. Catherine looked at it for a
moment, then unbuckled the metal strap, removed the
bottle and headed back.
"This should work just fine," she said, thrusting the
canister into Frank's hands. "Block the door with it."
She then stood back to wait while Frank lay the fire
extinguisher on its side. The rubber hose kept it from
rolling. "Did you think to bring along the flashlight,
dear?"
Frank looked chagrined. Patting his right coat pocket, he
withdrew the black Maglight. "Forgot I had this," he
said, flicking the beam on and off.
"Lucky you. Try not to drop it, okay?"
With that, she spun on her heel and headed back down the
corridor.
Solomon slowly shook his head. "I'm going the whack that
woman myself," he said. Then he said, thoughtfully, "You
know, I follow California politics pretty closely. I
voted for her in the last election."
"Not exactly an informed choice," Christine said.
"That's what I'm getting at. I've seen this woman in
action, and she is a real tiger. Devours Democrats for
lunch, Republicans too, if they get in her way. Sharpest
woman I've ever seen. The way she's acting now?" He
shrugged. "Don't know what to think."
Tanya said, "Stress manifests itself in some pretty ugly
ways. Aggressive behavior can degenerate into outright
paranoia overnight. I'd keep an eye on our Ms. Montes."
"Agreed," said Frank. "Wouldn't do to have her dropping
off the deep end."
"I think she's already jumped," Gregory said.
Having taken up position halfway down the corridor,
Catherine waited. She tapped her right toe. "Any time
today would be fine," she said.
Frank addressed Solomon. "Why don't you bring up the
rear. I'll take point."
"More than happy to," Solomon said.
Moving carefully into the dim corridor, the small group
walked single file down the middle. Although it wasn't as
pronounced as outside, the corridor exhibited that same,
flat-world effect. It made judging distances a difficult
task.
Coming to the first door on the right--a maintenance
office--Frank tried the knob. It was unlocked. He swung
the door open.
Inside they found a large, darkened room. One wall was
was lined with small offices--cubicles really--while the
other three were lined with racks. The wall opposite them
held an open doorway, flanked either side by shelving.
Shining the flashlight around, Frank showed them spare
parts ranging in size from jewelry-size boxes to a huge
coils of tubing sitting on pallets. Most, if not all the
parts were tagged. A red and blue American Airlines logo
decorated the wall above the door, and as with everything
else in this strange world, its colors were flat.
Inside the nearest cubicle sat a telephone on a desk.
"Hey!" Gregory exclaimed. Darting inside, he snatched up
the receiver and jammed it to his ear. He flicked the
plastic tongue. "Hello? Anybody there?"
"Push one of the buttons, Gregory," Tanya advised.
Gregory punched the top button on the right. It did not
light.
"No dial tone," he said.
Drifting over to the next cubicle on the right, Tanya
went inside. Jill heard her pick up the handset and then
press a button. She rattled the tongue. "No luck here
either," she called out.
"Dammit," Solomon muttered. "I'd like to see something--
just one thing--work in this fucking place."
"Let's move on," Frank said. "The sooner we get upstairs
to the concourse and back into the light, the better I'll
feel."
Jill was set to follow the rest, when something caught
her eye. At first, she couldn't put a name to it; then
she called out. "Could I borrow the flashlight, please?"
"Why?" Frank asked.
"I just want to examine something."
Scowling, Frank handed Jill the light. His expression
said: Hurry it up!
Shining the light around the first cubicle, Jill tried to
understand what she saw. Everywhere was the same
disturbing pattern. The telephone sat beside a stapler
and a scotch tape dispenser, which in turn sat next to a
HP LaserJet printer. All were neatly aligned. The monitor
and keyboard sat directly in the desk's center, placed as
though by exact measurement. Shelving in the cubicle held
manuals and stacks of leaflets, all perfectly arranged,
as were rows of binders. Nowhere was there a thing out of
place.
"So?" Frank asked.
"When was the last time you saw a desktop like this?"
Jill asked. She tracked the flashlight across the
surface.
Frank said: "So he's a neat freak. Let's go."
Jill went to the next cubicle over. The desk and shelving
were the same. "This guy too?" she asked.
"What's your point?" Frank asked back.
"My point is, this is more than just a tidy desk. It's
been arranged, set up. It looks like a window display.
Wait a second," she said.
Pulling back the swivel chair, Jill opened the center
drawer: Pens, pencils, rubber bands, large and small
paper clips, all were precisely placed. The pencils were
all of uniform length, their points neatly sharpened.
Nothing, not even a paper clip, was out of place.
"No one keeps a desk like this," she said. "No one."
"So, again?" Frank asked. "What's the point? Or do you
have an aversion to cleanliness?"
Fighting an alarmingly strong impulse to smack Frank
Trafano across the face, Jill left the cubicle, going to
the nearest rack. "Look at this," she said, holding a tag
in the light. "Notice anything strange?" Unexplainable
fear had her heart in its clammy grip and wouldn't let
go.
"The tags are perfectly symmetrical," she said, ticking
off four with a fingertip. They marched along the shelf
and up and down all the shelves in the same, letter
perfect rows. It was as though some schizophrenic had
spent days arranging this inventory and every shelf was
the same.
Suddenly the bolts holding her intellect started to slip
and the room felt half the size. Then the floor became a
hole into which she was falling and far off Jill heard a
forlorn cry. When it stopped, there was only blackness.
Chapter 7
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
6:18 A.M. PDT (9:18 A.M. EDT)
Ground Level, Mid-field Concourse
Dulles International Airport,
Washington, D.C.
She lay in the corridor, on her back, looking up into
Tanya's eyes. Tanya was speaking her name and stoking her
hair. Her head was cradled in her lap. She had a bruising
headache.
"She's coming around," Gregory said.
"You okay?" Frank asked
Tanya's stroking hand felt wonderful. Jill wanted to
close her eyes and go back to sleep. But then Frank and
Gregory leaned over into view and Jill guessed the
respite was over.
"What happened?"
"You fainted," Tanya said. "Just dropped the flashlight
and collapsed on the floor. I grabbed your blouse as you
were going down," she said, grinning wryly. "But I'm
afraid I snapped your bra. It kept your head from hitting
too hard, though, so maybe you'll forgive me."
Jill became conscious of the other's ill-at-ease looks.
The attraction she felt for Tanya was mutual, she
realized.
"I'd rather be braless than brainless any day," she said,
sitting up. Pain shrieked behind her eyes. "Thank you."
"Your welcome."
"Help me up?"
Carefully, she placed a hand on the floor and allowed
Tanya to help her to her knees. Nausea swept through her.
"Lie back down if you need to," Tanya said. "We're in no
hurry."
I bet Catherine Montes would disagree.
That, as it turned out, was wrong. Catherine Montes was
gone.
"She got tired of standing around," Tanya said. "Frank
sent Solomon to track her down."
"How long was I out?"
"Five minutes or so. You came around nearly as soon as we
moved you out into the corridor."
Jill blinked. "What time is it now?"
Tanya consulted her watch. "Six-ten. Nearly time for
breakfast."
JIll groaned. "Please don't mention food."
The pain in her head had subsided to a more reasonable
level, and Jill felt well enough to stand. Tanya remained
close at her side.
"I'm okay, Really I am. Thank you, so much."
Tanya smiled and Jill felt it was a smile meant just for
her. Her heart rate quickened. "I'm not usually this
wishy-washy," she apologized. "I've never passed out
before."
Tanya remained a reassuring presence at her elbow. "After
what we've been through," she said, "it's a wonder any of
us can function."
Jill remembered her conversation with Frank in the nose
wheel compartment. "Something is wrong with the air," she
said. "Ever since we left the airplane I've had a really
hard time breathing."
Tanya nodded. "So have I."
"Me too," Jessica chimed in.
Gregory said: "I thought it was just my asthma."
They all looked at Frank Trafano.
"Either the oxygen content here is lower than normal," he
grudgingly admitted, "or we're having problems breathing
it. Either way, I don't like the implications. Your
fainting might not have been hyperventilation at all,
Jill, but too little oxygen in the bloodstream. It would
explain other things as well."
"Like what?" Gregory asked.
"Like why our fuel consumption was so high," Frank said.
"And why the engine exhausts were consistently running
hot. We landed with just under ten thousand pounds of
fuel, fifteen hundred pounds lighter what we should have.
Lack of a tail-wind accounts for some of it, but no more
than twenty percent."
"So what you're saying is that the oxygen doesn't burn
right," Tanya said.
Frank shrugged. "It might have reduced ignition, yes. The
computer offsets the condition by enriching the fuel
mixture... consumption goes up, and so does the exhaust
temperature."
"What could cause oxygen not to burn right?" Gregory
wanted to know. "We're talking laws of physics here,
right?"
Christine said: "Laws are meant to be broken."
"Not these laws," Frank said. "Not by us."
Tanya interjected: "Let's find our way up. Leave these
questions to a more appropriate time. Besides, I don't
like the idea of Catherine wandering around alone. No
telling what she might be up to." She looked Frank in the
eye. "Catherine Montes scares me," she said.
Frank had to agree.
Continuing up the corridor, they reach a T-intersection
with another hallway. Nothing was to their left but utter
darkness, but to their right, where the corridor ended in
another T-intersection thirty feet away, they saw dim
light. Then they heard Solomon's voice.
"This way!" he yelled. "We found a way up!"
His voice was odd, Jill thought--as flat sounding as
everything around her looked; she realized there was no
echo.
As they approached the corridor's end, Solomon appeared.
"We found a flight of stairs," he said. "Leading up to
the concourse." A handkerchief was wrapped around his
left hand. It showed a large, dark stain. "We had to
break out a window and guess I got a little careless."
"It's nothing," Catherine Montes said, appearing
suddenly. "A scratch. Let's go."
Jill was appalled at her callousness. "Catherine,
Solomon's been injured!"
Taking Solomon's hand, she removed the bandage and was
shocked by the ugly gash. Two inches long, it split
Solomon's palm, cutting deeply into the meat of his
thumb.
"This is serious!" she exclaimed. "Tanya, look."
Tanya examined the wound. "This has to be attended to,
Solomon. And soon. It needs disinfecting, and stitches as
well. It could easily become infected."
Solomon pulled his hand away. "It barely hurts," he
muttered, reapplying the bandage. "I'll be fine."
"No, you won't," Tanya argued. "It doesn't hurt now, but-
-"
Frank interrupted. "I'm afraid Catherine is right. Our
first priority is in getting upstairs. Once there, we can
find the medical office and get Solomon fixed up. Until
then, I suggest we keep focused on the problem at hand."
Jill's temper flared. "I don't know who's lack of
compassion is more alarming," she said. "Your's or
Catherine Montes's! We don't know if this building even
has a medical office, much less where it might be."
Everyone looked surprised, which only fueled Jill's
anger. "I think we've already lost sight of the problem,"
she insisted. "Which is what happened to us and why only
to us. We haven't a clue what danger this place poses,
microbe-wise, or other. Until we do, I think we better
concentrate on remaining safe."
Now, everyone just looked embarrassed.
"Fine!" she said, throwing up her hands in defeat. "Lead
the way."
Rounding the corner, the group followed Catherine Montes
thirty paces to a door with a broken-out window. On the
floor, amidst shattered glass, sat another fire
extinguisher. It bore a smear of blood. Stepping forward,
Frank shown the flashlight up the stairwell, illuminating
a door at the top. It was a security entrance, with a
sign.
"Don't worry," Catherine said. "It's open."
"After you, then," Frank said.
Grinning tightly, Catherine began to climb. Her four inch
tall heels clacked hollowly on the linoleum treads and
again, Jill was struck by how sound failed to carry in
this deserted world.
Reaching the top, Catherine stuck out her hand and
gripped the doorknob. She pushed the door open and one by
one they emerged onto the main floor of the mid-field
concourse. They all stood about, looking around in
wonder.
Imported Langoliers Text here, 11-24-02
Starting with page 94
Jill's shocked amazement at having awoken on a plane
magically emptied of people had worn off; dislocation now
took the place of wonder. She had never been in an
airport terminal which was utterly empty before. The
rental-car lines were deserted. The ARRIVALS and
DEPARTURES monitors were blank. No one stood at the bank
of counters serving Delta, United, Northwest Air-Link, or
Southwest Airlines. The huge tank in the middle of the
floor with the BUY MARYLAND CRABS banner stretched over
it was empty; both of crabs and water alike. The overhead
fluorescents were off and the light entering through the
windows on the far side of the concourse petered out
halfway across the floor. The little group from Flight 74
stood huddled together in an unpleasant nest of shadows
and light.
"Okay, then," Catherine said, trying for briskness and
managing only unease. "Let's try the pay phones, shall
we?"
While Catherine went to the closest bank of telephones,
Jill wandered over to the Hudson News counter for a
browse. Neatly stacked along the front in their own
individual bins were copies of The Washington Post, The
New York Times, The Wall Street Journal and the USA
Today. Below the counter were neatly arranged shelves of
People magazine, Harper's Bazaar, Time and Newsweek, and
dozens of other glossy publications. Candy, mints and gum
sat neatly in the wire racks above. Each carton was full
and every label faced the same way. At the threshold
between store and concourse, immaculate carpet
transitioned to lustrous marble tile. Again, Jill was
struck by everything's eerie flawlessness.
She had just bent over to inspect the cover of the The
Washington Post newspaper more closely--it was dated for
today, July 20, 2013--when a dry scratching noise sounded
behind her. She whirled about, staggering back against
the counter and letting out a choked cry. Christine, just
touching a match to the tip of her cigarette, cried out
as well, then laughed.
"God! You scared me!"
"I scared you?" Jill said, catching her breath. She
offered a small, embarrassed smile.
Christine shook out the match and dropped it on the
marble flooring. "I find this place to be seriously
fucked-up," she said, taking a deep pull on her
cigarette. "Almost as bad as the airplane."
Solomon strolled over. "You know, I quit those about ten
years ago.
"Oh, please," Christine said. "I've had lectures up the
ying-yang."
Solomon raised an eyebrow. "Actually. I was going to ask
if I could borrow one, my dear. Seems like an excellent
time to renew bad habits."
Christine grinned and offered him a Marlboro. She lit it
for him with a match. He inhaled deeply, then explosively
coughed.
Christine laughed. "You sure you want to do this?"
Solomon blinked his eyes. They were brimmed with tears.
"I'd get used to it again in a hurry," he said, though he
looked at the cigarette askance. "That's the real horror
of the things. By the way, did either of you notice the
clock?"
He pointed to the wall above the entrance to the men's
and ladie's restrooms. The clock mounted there had both
hands pointing straight up.
"High noon," Christine observed.
Solomon slowly nodded. "The flight took off at a quarter
to twelve. We were in the air for awhile before the
event--whatever the event was--occurred. I fell asleep no
earlier than quarter to one, so by any measure, that
makes the time it happened sometime between one a.m. and
three, Pacific Daylight Time. Twelve o'clock their time
translates to nine o'clock our time, be it day or night."
"So?" Christine asked.
"So, the clock should read sometime between four and six
a.m., not midnight."
"Or noon," Gregory said.
"Or noon," Solomon agreed. "And what do you think the
chances are it would happen right at the top of the
hour?"
"Great," Christine said. "Another dilemma."
Solomon said: "Which still doesn't explain the sun. It
should be early A.M., yet it's the middle of the
afternoon."
"That problem again," she remarked.
Jill looked at her watch. It was 6:34 A.M. Something more
troubling than an errant wall clock had her attention
though. "If this all happened at... " she glanced toward
the useless clock again "... between four and six a.m.,
Washington time, then almost everyone in town was
asleep."
"Yeah," Solomon said blandly. "So where are they?"
Jill was nonplused. "I don't know!"
There was a bang as Catherine slammed down one of the pay
telephones. It was the last one in the bank. "They're all
dead!" she complained. "The coin-fed ones as well as the
direct-dial-outs! I could just scream!"
Jill prayed that she wouldn't.
"So what do we do now?" she asked. Hearing the forlorn
sound of her own voice made her feel very small and lost.
Beside her, Jessica was looking slowly around. Her head
canted first one way, then the other, as though trying to
identify a sound.
"What's wrong?" Jill asked.
Jessica shook her head. "I don't know. I thought heard
something."
"Like what?" Christine wanted to know.
"Like... I don't know, something."
They spent the next fifteen seconds listening to silence.
Finally, Solomon said: "Let's go find a place to eat. I'm
starved."
They all looked at him as though he'd told them to take
off their clothes. Solomon snorted. "People think better
on a full stomach," he said. "And right now I need to
think."
"Solomon's right," Frank said. "We could use something to
eat. And I doubt seriously if anything here will point us
in the right direction."
Catherine looked distractedly up and down the long
concourse. "Why not?" she said. "I'm starting to feel
like Mrs. Robinson Bloody Crusoe anyway."
Her demeanor, Jill thought, had lost some of its piss and
vinegar.
They all started toward the egress to the main terminal,
following the signs for food. Jill, Tanya, and Solomon
walked together, toward the rear.
"You know something, don't you?" Jill asked. "About what
it is?"
Solomon shrugged. "If I know something, it's only that
I'm confused. I have one suggestion, though."
"What's that?"
He turned to Christine. "I suggest that you save your
matches. They may come in handy, later on."
"Why?" Christine asked. "There's a news stand right over
there," she said, pointing out the Hudson News. "They'll
have plenty of matches. Cigarettes and disposable
lighters, too."
"I agree," Solomon said. "But I still advise you to save
your matches."
Jill was about to loose her temper over Solomon's
obtuseness when Frank Trafano stopped. It was so sudden
that she didn't have time to halt. She bounced off his
shoulder and staggered into Tanya Raum.
"Frank, watch out where you're going, please!"
Frank ignored her. He was looking all around. "Where's
Catherine?" he said.
"What?" from Christine.
"The woman with the pressing hemorrhoid problem."
"Who cares?" Christine asked. "Maybe she joined the rest
of the human race."
Everyone else offered their agreement, but Jill still
felt uneasy. She didn't like Catherine off on her own.
She glanced at Tanya, who shrugged, then shook her head.
"Sorry, I didn't see her go."
"Catherine!" Frank shouted. "Catherine Montes! Where are
you?"
There was no response. Only that queer, oppressive
silence. And in a high-ceilinged place like the
concourse, there should have been at least some echo.
But there was none.
No echo at all.
Chapter 8
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
6:45 A.M. PDT (9:45 A.M. EDT)
Concourse Level, Mid-field Concourse
Dulles International Airport,
Washington, D.C.
While the others had trundled off in search of food,
Catherine Montes held back, creeping down a stalled
escalator when no one was looking. She knew exactly where
she wanted to go, and exactly what to look for when she
got there. What she didn't know was how close to the edge
her mind was straying.
Unlike the others, who unbeknownst even to themselves had
been in Stage 3, or "REM" sleep (short for Rapid Eye
Movement) when the "event" occurred, Catherine was barely
unconscious, dozing really. Half a dozen others in even
lighter sleep hadn't crossed over at all.
But the result of this closeness to wakefulness not only
allowed her to be dragged along with the seven others
across the transition--whatever that transition was--but
had left her in a very dangerous spot. Her tenuous grip
on reality had drastically lessened her grip on reality
now. She now walked a razor-thin line between madness and
sanity.
And madness was winning.
Striding briskly across the large empty room--the Airport
Services department--Catherine ignored both the empty
chairs and the large empty kiosk marked INFORMATION. At
the far end of the room above a darkened corridor was a
sign. It read:
AIRPORT SECURITY
That was the place she wanted.
She had almost reached the head of the corridor when,
glancing toward one of the wide, tarmac level windows,
her pace faltered. She slowly approached the glass and
looked outside.
"What?" she whispered.
Other than the Boeing 767 she had just departed, there
was nothing but wide empty concrete and the moveless blue
sky; her eyes began to widen nonetheless. Fear stole into
her heart.
They're coming, a long dead voice said.
"What?" she whispered, again.
They're coming, the dead voice repeated. It was the voice
of her mother. It spoke to her from a small, haunted
mausoleum tucked away deep inside Catherine Montes's
brain.
"No," she whimpered. The word formed a little blossom of
fog on the window. "No one is coming."
You've been bad, the voice said. Worse, you've been
whorish!
"No!"
Yes. You had a showdown with David Twomy this afternoon
and you ran away. You ran away with a bunch of losers and
freaks!
"It wasn't my fault," she protested. She gripped the
window mullion to her right with almost painful
tightness. "I was taken against my will. I... I was
shanghaied!"
No reply from that long ago voice. Only waves of disdain.
Catherine intuited the pressure she was under, the
terrible, never-ending pressure, the weight of her own
name.
THEY were here, her mother said. And they will return.
You know that, don't you, Catherine Marie?"
Catherine knew. The langoliers would be back. Their job,
their mission in life was to prey upon lazy, promiscuous
women like her. She had never seen them, but she knew how
horrible they would be. And she was not alone in her
knowledge, oh-no. That little blonde girl knew something
about them too. Catherine could tell by the way she had
listened.
Pulling herself away from the window, away from the
stillness outside, Catherine plunged into the corridor
beneath the sign. She came to a door with a small
rectangular plaque mounted just above a peephole. AIRPORT
SECURITY, it said.
All of this... this craziness, she thought. It doesn't
belong to me. I don't have to own it.
She reached out and touched the door and pushed; the door
swung easily open. Either it was left slightly unlatched
or, like the entrance door they had come in, it had
unlocked when the power went off. She didn't care which.
The important thing was that she wouldn't need to muss
her clothes crawling through an air-conditioning duct or
something stupid like that. She had every intention of
showing up for her Appropriations Committee meeting later
that day and one of the simple, un-exceptioned truths of
life was this: Girls with dirt on their clothes had no
credibility.
She pushed the door open and went inside.
*
Frank and Tanya were the first to reach "restaurant row."
The others gathered around them. Surrounding them were
contour plastic seats (many with coin-op TVs bolted to
the arms). To their left was an empty kiosk filled with
cellular telephones and paraphernalia, the floor-to-
ceiling polarized windows looking out on the tarmac,
another airport news stand and the security checkpoint
serving Gate 12. To their right was The Gridiron Bar and
The Mile High Restaurant. Beyond the restaurant was the
corridor leading to the Main Terminal loading dock.
"Come on," Frank said. "We'll just--"
"Wait!"
It was Jessica and she spoke with such urgency that
everyone turned to stare. Frank speared her with a look
of annoyance.
"What is it, Jess?" Tanya asked.
Jess closed her eyes and performed a graceful but comical
looking pirouette. She stopped midway through the second
turn. She then stood there, listening.
"What is it?" Frank repeated.
Jessica issued a strong "Shhh!" and completed her turn.
She stood facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. When she
opened her eyes again, she seemed unsurprised to be
facing that way. "There," she said in a low, uncertain
voice.
Anxiety touched Jill's heart. She was not alone in her
angst. Christine had crowded close to Gregory's side, and
Tanya had moved in against her own. Frank, however, gave
an impatient sigh and Jill sensed he was mentally
counting. Just as he appeared ready to open his mouth,
Jessica opened hers.
"The sound is... there," she said.
"What sound?" Frank demanded.
Everyone canted their heads.
Walking almost like a sleep-walker, Jessica crossed to
the glass and placed her right hand against it. She
hurriedly drew it away. "I can hear it," she said. "From
out there."
Jill looked down to see that she had crossed her arms
across her chest and was clutching herself hard. She
heard her own breathing, and the breathing of the
others... but nothing else. It's her imagination, she
thought. Just her imagination. But still she wondered.
Tanya joined Jessica at the window. "What is it you hear,
Jess?"
"I don't know," Jessica said, staring out through the
glass. "It's faint. I thought I heard it a few minutes
ago when we came upstairs, but decided it was just my
imagination. Now I can hear it very plain. Even through
the glass. It sounds--" she paused, furrowing her brow "-
-like the crackling on an old cassette tape. Only without
the music."
Behind Jill, Christine turned to Gregory and asked in a
whispered voice. "Do you hear anything?"
Gregory shook his head. "I have to tell you though, I am
totally weirded out. This place needs some sound."
"I think it's hysteria," Christine whispered, almost into
Gregory's ear. Although she could not hear Christine's
words, Jill caught his blink of pleasure--and
embarrassment.
Jessica turned from the window. Her face was vermilion.
"I am not imagining it!" she exclaimed. "If you can't
hear it, then go outside! I'm sure you'll hear it then!"
She pointed due east through the glass. Her eyes, wet
with angry tears, swept over them. "It's a sound that
scares the shit out of me, too! I want it to go away."
Everyone looked astonished, especially Tanya, who stood
at Jessica's side. Her expression said she had heard
nothing of the whispered conversion. Christine blinked
rapidly half a dozen times, and mumbled an apology.
Solomon moved forward. "If you know what it it, Jess,
that probably would help."
Jessica shook her head. "I don't know what it is. I only
know that it's closer than it was before." She looked
apprehensively out the glass. "We need to get out of
here, Solomon. We don't want to be around when that sound
arrives."
Frank said, "Jess, the plane is low of fuel. We're not
going anywhere."
"Then put some more in," she cried. "Because, I'm telling
you, Frank! Whatever is out there is not something we
want to meet face to face! Not if we want to live!"
With that, Jessica brushed roughly past Tanya and Frank
and stomped tight-fisted toward the opposite side of the
room. Her blonde hair swept behind her listlessly in the
motionless air. As she passed by, Solomon made to grab
her arm with his uninjured hand--so much for the medical
office, Jill thought--but she side-stepped him neatly.
"Leave me alone!" she hissed. She stopped before the
entrance to the Mile High restaurant and stood looking
in.
Shocked and confused, Jill looked from the angry young
girl to the still-life scene outside. Although she heard
nothing of the crackling noise, she absolutely believed
that anything alive in this lifeless world was nothing
she'd want to meet.
*
Catherine heard the blonde brat begin to carry on
somewhere upstairs and ignored her. She had found what
she wanted and, unsnapping the strap on the leather
holster, she withdrew the nine-millimeter automatic and
held it up to see. She moved into the open doorway where
the light was better and ejected the clip. It was full.
The gun belonged to a TSA agent named Reginald Lawrence
(a black name for sure, she thought, grinning tightly)
which she had found in an unlocked locker along with a
cell phone and a can of Mace. The cell phone didn't work,
of course, but that didn't surprise her. What mattered
was the fully loaded clip and the box of shells on the
top shelf. And the fact that the trigger guard was not
installed. That had been on the shelf alongside the box
of shells, another testament to the fuck-you attitude of
some big black stud. And a big black stud he would
certainly be, she knew, based on her first-hand knowledge
of airport security guards. And a black man with a gun--
legally or otherwise--was always a stud.
Checking the safety, Catherine slapped the magazine home
and chambered a round. She raised the gun and taking up a
three point stance, sighted along the barrel. She kept
her trigger finger outside the guard, but couldn't stop
the finger from twitching. She smiled again. Then the
smile faded as she realized it was the American Airlines
Boeing 767 she had sighted on. She lowered the gun. Her
gaze dropped. She turned around and without warning the
most intense feeling of loneliness gripped her. She was
twelve years old again, alone in her bedroom, shivering
beneath the bedclothes as in the next room over, her
mother banged relentlessly away in bed. The bed's
headboard sounded the fucking couple's rhythm in an
almost musical beat. She listened to the chuffs and the
grunts, the gasps and the squeals, the urgent commands to
move this way or that, squeeze now or grip harder, spread
that damn thing wider white bitch!
No! she had thought desperately, clamping her eyes. I
will not cry! I will not tell mommy that her precious
stud muffin had plucked the delicate petals from her own
precious flower, that she, Catherine also knew how to
gasp and to squeal, to squeeze now or grip harder, and to
spread that damn thing wider, white bitch!
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Catherine muttered,
through her tears. "I don't want to, but this... this is
intolerable."
She looked again out the windows. For a moment, the truth
of what had happened, what was still happening, hit home.
It broke through her complex system of defensive shields
and into the air-raid shelter in which she had retreated.
Everyone is gone, Cathy-wathy. The whole world is gone
except for you and the people who were with you on that
airplane.
"No," she moaned, collapsing against the wall. "That's
not so. That's just not so at all. I reject that idea on
the grounds it's a plot to keep me away from David
Twomy."
No, the voice insisted. The langoliers were here, and you
better be gone when they get back... or you know what
will happen.
Catherine knew of course. They would eat her. The would
gobble her right up. Worse, they would tear her clothing
to shreds, pitch her screaming and flailing through the
air like a bonsai badminton puck, and then devour her in
malicious little bites until nothing was left but her
screaming mouth and her bugged out eyes. As they did in
her dreams.
The langoliers would eat her all up.
Crossing to a desk in the center of the room, Catherine
lay the automatic down upon a stack of reports. Then, as
though unaware of her actions, she slowly raised the hem
of her dress up to her waist, slid her thumbs beneath the
waistband of her pantyhose, and slid them down to her
knees. Sitting back in the chair, she then kicked off her
high heels and removed her pantyhose completely and sat
them on the desktop alongside the gun. Pushing back from
the desk, she raised up and placed her heels on either
corner of the desk, She spread wide her legs.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," she repeated in a distant,
low voice.
Still looking unaware of her actions, she slid aside the
crotch of her white Victoria's Secret panties, touched
the bulge of her baby-clean vulva and moaned deep within
her throat.
"I won't hurt anyone," she whispered. "Not unless I have
to."
Locating the nub of her clitoris, she began to rub it
gently. It felt very good. In fact, it felt wonderful.
Continuing this pleasurable massage, she allowed the
fingertips of her left hand to glide gently over her
genitals which, thanks to the miracle of modern day
technology were permanently free of hair--as were her
legs and her underarms--and slip stealthily inside.
"Ummm," she moaned softly as the finger on her clitoris
continued going round and round. Her chest visibly rose
and fell. Soon she was hypnotized as breath fluttered in
and out of her lungs but, even as she danced around the
fringes of her orgasm, the cold, niggering voice of her
mother would not entirely leave her alone.
Be gone, it said, or you know what will happen when the
langoliers arrive.
Catherine knew, all right, but left that problem for
later.
*
The silence following Jessica's outburst was finally
broken by Solomon.
Gently rubbing the pad of his right thumb over the
makeshift bandage, he said: "If Jessica hears something
outside--and I for one believes she does--it would be
helpful if we knew what it was. It would also be helpful
if we could come up with an idea for getting more fuel."
She looked expectantly at their pilot. "I don't like the
idea of being stranded here, Frank."
Frank said, "Neither do I, but I'd like to know where
we'd go."
"Away from here!" Jessica called loudly from across the
room.
"How much fuel do we have, Frank? Really?"
Frank considered. "Maybe an hour's worth. Maybe a little
bit more. But again, where would we go?"
Jessica turned back to face them. "Away. Away from that
sound."
Jill interjected herself into the conversation. "When we
were landing, I saw a big jet out near the runway, a
United Airlines jet. Could you pilot that if you had to,
Frank? Or use it to fuel us up?"
Frank looked doubtful.
"There are other aircraft out there as well," Tanya
pointed out, "pulled up to the jetways. Can you fly one
of those?"
"Yes," Frank said. "Depending on the make and model. And
I seem to remember one 767 out there, at least."
Tanya raised her eyebrows in a Well, that's one problem
solved, expression and from across the room, Jessica
said: "Good. The sooner the better."
Tanya left the window and moved halfway between Jessica
and the group. "How far is it away?" she asked gently.
"The noise. Do you have any idea?"
Jessica bit her lip. "A ways off, I think. It fades in
and out. Right now I can barely hear it. But... "
"Then I suggest we do exactly what Solomon suggested,"
Frank said. "And get something to eat. I for one am very
hungry."
"Me too," Gregory seconded.
"Uh, huh," Christine chimed in.
"We shouldn't wait," Jessica said fretfully.
"Fifteen minutes. Twenty tops. Then we can beat this
thing around and hash it out. Okay?"
Everyone, other than Jessica, nodded their heads.
*
The Mile High Restaurant was little more than a glorified
cafeteria. A trio of cold-drink cases ran along one wall,
with a pair of sandwich, burger and sub cold-cases
against the other. Between them were cheap plastic chairs
around half a dozen circular tables; a stainless-steel
deli counter ran lengthwise across the back. All the bins
and compartments in the counter were empty, all
spotlessly clean. There wasn't a speck of grease on the
floor, the counter or the grill. The bottles of cola,
juice and other soft-drinks inside the drink cases were
placed with their labels facing front.
"More perfect housekeeping," Jill observed, walking
behind the deli counter and up to a shelf. She fingered
the perfectly positioned and sparkling new rows of
glasses. Frank shot her a pointed look, then opened the
first drink case and removed a bottle of Gatorade.
Solomon, standing by the cash register and continuing to
rub his palm, said, "Okay. Can I have another cigarette,
Christine?"
"Mooch," she said, crinkling her mouth. "Next time, buy
your own." Producing her box of Marlboro's, she shook one
free. Solomon took it, but shook his head to the
proffered matches.
"Let's try one of these," he said, fishing a book from a
green and red wicker basket beside the cash register.
Christine shrugged and pulled out a cigarette of her own.
Opening a book of matches emblazoned with the familiar
red and white Marlboro logo--an attractive young woman in
tight jeans with a pack of cigarettes protruding from her
rear pocket graced the cover--Solomon clumsily pulled one
free and glanced at the others. They all stared back.
Everyone seemed to understand this was an important test.
Other than leaving a track of white on the black striker,
the match did nothing. Solomon struck it again with the
same result. On the third try, the tip of the match broke
off.
"Well, shit," Christine said. "Let me try."
Grabbing a fresh book of matches, she pulled one out and
tried to light it against the back. It didn't light. She
tried it again. She tried it with half a dozen more when
the first one broke, and then with a different pack
altogether.
"Son of a bitch!" she said. "I don't get this."
"Try it with your own," Solomon directed.
Christine, looking unhappy as hell, fingered her own pack
without a word.
"Solomon?" Jill said. "What do you know?"
"Only that this situation has worse implications than we
originally thought." His eyes were calm, but a tick had
started up in his right temple. "I have an idea that
we've all made a wrong assumption about what happened on
that airplane. Until we get it right, I don't think
there's any getting on top of this problem."
Taking Christine's pack of matches out of her hand, he
pulled one free and struck it against the back. It lit on
the first strike. "Okay," he said, and looked at the
flame. He applied it to the tip of his cigarette, and
then to Christine's. They both sucked down smoke. They
both blew it out. To Jill, it smelled almost divine. Then
she realized that it was the only thing she smelled. She
turned and inspected Tanya's neck.
"What?" Tanya asked.
Jill looked away in embarrassment. "Nothing," she said.
But she remembered the distinct, if very light smell of
Tanya's perfume on the plane.
"So what does this tell us?" Gregory demanded.
Solomon held the burning match between his fingertips
until it was almost burned down. Bending back the top of
the book he'd taken from the red and white bowl, and
exposing all the tips, he touched the lit match to their
ends. For a long moment nothing happened. Then, with a
pfffff of weak ignition, the heads flared into life and
ignited the ones next in line. Barely visible flame
traversed from the center out to the ends, and then went
out. A few wisps of smoke drifted lazily upward. Jill
smelled sulfur... but just barely.
"That," Solomon said, answering Gregory's question. "Is
your answer."
At that moment, Frank uttered a cry of disgust. Jessica,
standing to his right, gave a little cry and danced away;
Jill felt her heart take a skip.
"What's wrong?" Gregory demanded. Instinctively, he had
embraced Christine about the shoulders and moved her
away. She blinked big-eyed in response and he self-
consciously removed his arm.
"It's bad!" Frank exclaimed. He had uncapped the bottle
of Gatorade and taken a swallow, then spat it out on the
floor. Wetness formed an exclamation point on the carpet.
"Bad?" Solomon asked. His eyes flicked from the bottle in
Frank's hand to the glass-fronted drink case. "Are you
sure?"
Frank stared leary-eyed at the bottle. "Maybe not bad,
but... something." He wiped his mouth.
"Is it cold?" Solomon asked.
"Yes... no. Room temperature."
Solomon crossed to the drink case closest and opened the
door. He felt amongst the rows of bottles on each level;
glass clanked dully. When he removed a bottle of diet
Coke and unscrewed the cap, there was no escape of
compressed gas, no bubbling of the dark liquid at all.
The drink was flat. Closely watched by the others, he
brought the bottle to his lips and tasted it. He pulled
it quickly away.
"That's bad too?" Christine said. Her voice held a note
of tremulation. Jill felt dread as well. For if the
liquids here were somehow poisoned, it would be a very
short stay.
Solomon took another sip, then a long pull. He gulped the
liquid down. "It's okay," he said, wiping his mouth.
"Just pretty... tasteless."
Frank sniffed the mouth of his bottle of Gatorade and
concurred. "Like water, almost."
Tanya took a whiff of the bottle, then Jill. It wasn't
entirely odorless, she realized, but like the burning
matches, only marginally there. She took a sip,
swallowing experimentally. The taste was like nothing she
could describe. She handed Frank back the bottle.
"Thanks, but I'll stick to water."
Reopening the drink case, Solomon removed four bottles of
Dasani bottled water and passed them around.
"What about food?" Gregory asked, looking at the neatly
placed rows of offerings in the sandwich cases. "Think
they're okay?"
"I should think so," Solomon said. "Stuff like that has
preservatives enough in it to embalm them forever.
Beside, it's been what? Just a few hours since the power
went out."
"A few hours, our time," Christine observed.
Setting his mouth in a grim line, Solomon said, "Only one
way to find out."
Except for Jessica, who had walked to the entrance and
stood listening to the sound of the phantom menace, they
formed a semi-circle around the right-hand case.
"What strikes your fancy?" Christine asked.
Solomon shrugged. Sandwiches, cut in half and packed in
triangular plastic containers, filled the top four racks
of the case. He opened the door and selected a container;
sliced turkey on rye. No cheese and no Mayo, Jill
thought. Nothing to go bad.
Examining the label, Solomon showed the container
around. The expiration date was seven days away. "It's
fresh," he said. "Probably made just today."
"Probably," Christine agreed. But her tone and the
hunched position of her shoulders said otherwise. Gregory
looked as though he wanted to put his arm back around her
and Jill wished someone felt that way about her. Then she
realized someone did. Unconsciously, she had bumped
against Tanya's shoulder and Tanya had bumped her right
back. Jill felt her skin tingle.
"It's cool at least," Solomon said, peeling back the
label. He sniffed and nodded his head. Carefully removing
half of the sandwich from the container, he smelled it
again, then lifted back one corner of the bread. The
sliced turkey was freshly white. He took a bite and Jill
saw an expression of disgust pass over his face--but he
did not get rid of the food. He chewed once... twice...
"Man!"
Moving hurriedly to the closest trash can, he pushed back
the lid and spat the the turkey sandwich out. He rinsed
with a gulp of bottled water and spat that out as well.
"Spoiled," Frank said.
"Not spoiled. Just tasteless." His mouth puckered, as
though from a bite of lemon. He opened the flap of the
trash container again and dropped in the remainder of the
once-bitten sandwich inside. He kept the second half in
his hand. "Like rubber," he said. "I'm not even sure it
was food. It was more like... like... "
"Like a food display?" Christine ventured.
Jill thought of those realistic looking fake deserts they
show you in restaurants.
"Yeah, like that," Solomon said. He offered the remaining
sandwich-half around. No one volunteered. "Thought so,"
he mumbled, sending the second half after the first.
"So what do we do now?" Gregory wanted to know.
"We get away from here," Jessica said from twenty feet
away. "As soon as we can."
*
Catherine sat very still in the chair. Her legs quivered
and her chest labored up and down--otherwise she was
motionless.
You have to act soon, her mother's voice warned. Or
they'll be back.
Catherine wagged her head from side to side. "In a
minute. I need to rest."
Rest is for the lazy, the voice said. Or the whorish.
"I am not a whore," Catherine said aloud.
You are not a model of virtue, either, my dear.
Catherine stirred, unhappily. "Why can't you just leave
me alone, mother? How old do I have to be out of your
grasp?"
When you act like an adult, her mother said.
"I'm forty years old!"
Don't raise your voice to me, Catherine Marie.
Catherine settled back, dejectedly. She mumbled things
under her breath.
What was that?
"Nothing."
For a time, neither Catherine nor her mother spoke. She
slid the crotch of her panties back in place--they were
wet, despite her best efforts to keep them safe--and
lowered her dress. She sat up and smoothed out the
wrinkles.
"There," she said, taking a deep breath. "I feel better
now."
Her mother's voice said nothing. It didn't have to.
Catherine felt her contempt.
You have nothing to say to me, mother, she thought,
remembering the thudding headboard against her bedroom
wall. At least I'm not married.
For some reason Catherine didn't understand, her unspoken
thoughts were unhearable by her mother. Good thing too,
otherwise she'd surely get spanked.
Spanked. Now there was a double-entender word. She hadn't
been spanked by a parent since she was thirteen. Only by
her lovers. But like the many men (and the occasional
woman) who had taken Catherine Montes bare-bottomed over
their knees, Catherine's father always paddled his
offspring naked... naked, kicking and screaming in front
of everyone in the house, regardless of age, sex or the
severity of their crimes. It was her worst memory as a
child... and her fondest as an adult.
It was time to go.
Picking up the gun and her purse, Catherine stood up and
left the room. She walked slowly, rehearsing as she went:
My fight is not with you, it's with David Twomy. Take me
to see David Twomy. My fight is not with you, it's with
David Twomy. Take me to see David Twomy. Her thumb found
the hammer of the gun and pulled it back, locking it with
a dull snick-click.
Halfway across the room, her attention was once again
captured by the high, wide windows and the airplane just
beyond. It was the only thing with depth.
The langoliers are coming, she thought. They were here
before and ate all the promiscuous, slatternly people;
now they were returning for her. She had to see David
Twomy first. She had to set things right. She couldn't
save the others--their death would be horrible indeed--
and probably not herself either, but things had to be set
right before the miserable creatures arrived.
Heading for the waiting and silent escalator stairs, she
cocked and uncocked the gun.
*
Upstairs in the Mile High Restaurant, Solomon performed
an experiment. Pouring a measure of liquid from half a
dozen bottles into glasses set side by side, he observed
with the others the results. Coca-Cola, Dr.Pepper,
Heineken and Michelob beer: the contents of each was
flat.
"So what's that prove?" Christine asked. "We already know
something's wrong."
"Yeah," Frank said. "If you know what's going on here,
Solomon, just spill it. We don't have all day."
"But I think we do," Solomon said, "and that is what
worries me most."
Christine said: "Huh?"
Solomon lowered his head and rubbed his brow. "Look
around you," he said. "Tell me what you see?"
They all looked around. Jill, for one, saw only the clean
but lonely looking collection of tables and chairs and
the glass-fronted cases. She felt rather stupid, as
though missing something important in plain sight. But
she was not alone.
Tanya said, "I'm sorry, Solomon, but I don't see a thing.
What are we looking for?"
Solomon answered: "Airports are like police stations.
They're open twenty-four hours a day. When this thing
happened, it was probably around five a.m. Not the
busiest time of the day, but certainly not the deadest
either. There should have been delivery people about,
cleaning personnel, aircraft maintenance people, people
arriving for the earliest flights. Yet we saw no one.
Correction, we saw evidence of no one."
"And the gates," Tanya said. "The gates were all up."
Again, Christine said, "Huh?"
Tanya said: "I fly all the time and I never see a
concession gate up before six a.m. It's like a
regulation, or something."
"So what?" Christine demanded. "That makes a difference?"
"It makes a big difference," Solomon replied. "As much as
the clocks."
"Them again," she sighed.
"What I'm getting at is that we saw evidence of the event
on the plane. Half-eaten meals, half-empty glasses, the
drinks trolley in the middle of the aisle. Not to mention
clothing and watches and purses and loose change. There
is nothing like that here. Nothing whatsoever. It's like
no one was here when the event occurred."
Jill looked around again. She felt like blinders had been
lifted from her eyes. "You're right," she said. "The
place is completely abandoned, sterile almost. Like it
was--"
"Waiting?"
Jill shuddered and nodded her head. Somehow, the idea of
an airport just waiting, like a parked car beside the
curb, was more disturbing than the disappearances
themselves.
"When we were on the airplane," Solomon said, "I was
thinking of the Mary Celeste."
"Right!" Gregory said, snapping his fingers. "The
abandoned ship."
"It was found drifting off the coast of Africa, still
under full sail; they had to chase her down in order to
board. They almost got outraced. Anyway, what they found
was a ship with no people on it."
"No crew, no passengers, no nothing," Gregory added.
"Only their stuff. Someone even found a pipe lying on the
foredeck and food in preparation in the galley."
"They say it was still lit," Gregory said, sounding awed.
"The pipe I mean. And the food was still cooking on the
stoves."
Solomon said, "I won't comment on that. But there was
another famous disappearance off the coast of North
Carolina. The colony at Roanoke Island. They disappeared
as well, leaving behind remains of campfires, open
houses, and partially completed work. There was even a
half-butchered cow being dressed. The rescuers found
nothing but a strange name carved into a tree."
"Croatoan," Gregory said.
Solomon nodded. "Sound familiar?"
"You really think we've flown into some kind of other
dimension?" Christine asked. "Like in a science-fiction
story or something?"
"A bad science-fiction story," Frank appended.
"No," Solomon said. "I think we--"
"Hey!" Jessica cried sharply. "What are you--"
"Shut the fuck up!"
They all turned to find Catherine holding Jessica in a
choke-hold. She pointed a gun at the group, swinging it
back and forth. Jessica uttered a desperate, terrorized
squawk and tried to pull herself free.
"Be still! I don't want to hurt you," Catherine said to
everyone, and to no one in particular. "But I will if I
have to. Take me into the city!" Her eyes were hard and
narrowed and constantly scanning the others. "Do you hear
me? I want to go into the city!"
"No!" Jessica yelped. "We have to leave!"
"You shut up!" Catherine hissed. She yanked hard enough
to make Jessica dance on her toes.
Solomon started forward but Tanya restrained him with a
hand. "No," she said. "No one move." She directed her
words to Catherine. "Put down the gun, Catherine. Let
Jessica go."
Jessica continued to squirm on her tiptoes and her face
was an alarming red.
"You're choking her, Catherine. Let her go."
"Not until I get what I want," Catherine said. Her voice
was low and controlled. "Now, who's going to drive me
in?"
None of the others moved, nor said a word. Jessica
continued to fight. Her eyes were bright with fear and
locked on the sights of the gun. It pointed directly at
Tanya.
"Quit struggling, Jess." Tanya said softly. "Stop it
now."
Jessica halted her movements. Catherine loosened her grip
and Jessica began to breath again.
"That's better," Tanya said. "Now, why do you want to go
into the city, Catherine?"
Catherine's eyes narrowed further. "That's my business."
"What concerns you, concerns us."
Catherine shook her head. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
Catherine hesitated, looking from one group member to the
other, and just as she seemed on the verge of speaking,
Jessica's right foot raised up and came down hard on her
arch. Everyone--Catherine included--yelled at once.
Gregory leaped forward.
"Gregory, no!" Christine and Tanya yelled together.
Catherine lost her hold on Jessica but not on the gun.
Her hand swung right and then left, making everyone
scatter. Everyone but Gregory, who ducked and ran like a
middle linebacker up the line. Coming up beneath
Catherine's arm, he yanked Jessica free and pushed her
roughly to the ground. Solomon and Frank then sprang
forward at the same instant, coming from the left and the
right. They had almost made it to Catherine when she let
loose an enraged shriek and the gun fired with a dull
pop. Fifteen feet away, Jill staggered backwards and
clutched at her chest. Tripping over her own feet, she
sat down hard on her behind and blinked disbelievingly at
her chest.
There was blood.
There was also pain.
And then there was only darkness.
Chapter 9
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
7:50 A.M. PDT (10:50 A.M. EDT)
Concourse Level, Mid-field Concourse
Dulles International Airport,
Washington, D.C.
She was in the restaurant, laying on her back. Tanya was
above her, slowly speaking her name and stoking her hair.
Jill realized her head was again cradled in Tanya's lap.
She had a bruising pain in her chest.
"She's coming around," Gregory said.
Frank and Gregory hove into view.
"You okay? Frank asked
"What happened?"
"You fainted," Tanya said, looking up at the others.
Jill complained: "Again?" Then she remembered the shot.
"It's okay," Tanya said, as Jill struggled to feel her
chest. "You're not badly hurt."
"I'm not?"
"Not badly."
Jill raised a bloodied hand.
"The bullet penetrated your left breast," Tanya said.
"About half an inch."
"It fell out," Gregory said.
Jill realized her blouse was fully open, leaving her
bare-chested and exposed.
"It's okay," Tanya said. "Solomon's gone for a bandage.
He'll be right back." She closed the sides of Jill blouse
over her chest as Frank and Gregory exchanged
uncomfortable looks.
"I thought I was dead," Jill said. She heard the awe in
her voice.
The look in Tanya's eyes said that she had as well.
"You're fine," she assured, and then her eyes overflowed
with tears. Jill encircled her shoulders and pulled Tanya
down to her neck. They cried together.
Now the others must really look embarrassed, she thought.
She didn't care. She cared only that she was alive and in
Tanya's arms.
*
"That should do the trick," Tanya said.
Jill sat in one of the cheap plastic chairs, bare-chested
again, but only herself, Tanya and Christine were in the
room. The wound was closed by butterfly bandages, covered
by a sterile gauze pad covered with antibiotic cream. The
bleeding had almost stopped.
"Thank you," Jill said.
Tanya smiled. "It's what I do for a living, remember? I
only wish there was some way to suture you up. But I
don't think you'd appreciate five or six stitches without
anesthetic."
"I don't think so either," Jill said, closing her blouse
and buttoning it up. She had removed her useless
brassiere.
"Is Catherine all right?"
A grin crossed Christine's face. She looked at the
entrance to the restaurant, beyond which voices could be
heard. It was the three men, outside with Catherine
Montes.
"I think she's okay," Tanya said. Gregory, frantic to
stop any further shooting, had decked the hysterical
Catherine with one wild punch. "Can you stand up?"
Jill rose cautiously from the plastic chair. Christine
and Tanya hovered either side. "I'm okay," she said,
holding the edge of the table for support. "Just a little
rattled."
From outside on the concourse, Solomon called in: "Things
all right in there?"
Tanya called back: "You can come in now. We're done."
Solomon, Frank, Gregory and Jessica came into the room.
The men stopped in a rough semi-circle five feet away,
while Jessica hurried over to Jill and gave her a big
hug. "I'm sorry," she said, her expression somewhat
shame-faced; she was on the verge of tears.
"Don't be. You're not the only one that faints at the
sight of blood."
This drew an uncomfortable laugh from the others.
Taking a step back, but holding onto Jill's forearms,
Jessica nodded uncertainly.
For a long moment there was silence, then Solomon said:
"If it's any consolation, Catherine swears she didn't
mean to shoot you, Jill. Says the gun just went off."
"Where is she," Jill asked. "Is anyone with her?"
Solomon cracked a grin. "Tied up. Very well tied up. We
don't have to worry about her for the time being."
Jill felt un-reassured. "What was she talking about,
anyway? Going into the city?"
Solomon shrugged. "Haven't had the opportunity to ask her
yet."
"Why not?"
The three men exchanged looks. Gregory offered a sheepish
grin. "Well... she, uh... she was yelling so loud when
she woke up that I put surgical tape over her mouth. From
the First Aid kit," at which point Christine broke into
delighted laughter which made Gregory grow all the more
redder. The two exchanged a hasty, though meaningful
look, which embarrassed Gregory even more. "Anyway," he
muttered. "I used the whole roll."
Christine moved deliberately to Gregory's side and made a
point of shooting him a quick, "maybe I like you, after
all" look. Gregory grew beet red.
Waiting out a momentary wave of dizziness, Jill asked,
"So who has the gun?"
"I do," Frank said, patting his coat pocket. The gun was
plainly visible in outline. "I also have this," he said,
extending his right hand. Between forefinger and thumb he
held a bullet. "A little souvenir."
Jill did not extend her hand. "No, thank you. I had it
once already."
Frank said, "I'd make the fucking bitch eat it, myself."
"Frank!" Tanya exclaimed.
Frank turned to her. "It was a misfire," he said.
"Otherwise the girl'd be dead. I think a little anger is
well-deserved under the circumstances."
"Are you sure it was a misfire?" Solomon asked. "I'm not
so certain about that."
"You mean the matches?" Gregory asked.
"Yes." Solomon rubbed his jaw, thoughtfully. "There must
have been just enough oomph in the powder to get the
bullet out. A little more oomph and it could have
penetrated her lungs."
Thanks, Jill thought, experiencing a shiver. "What do you
think is wrong with her?"
"Catherine?" Solomon asked. "Well, I'm not sure what
brought on this gun waving business, whether it was the
disappearances or what, but I think she has definitely
slipped a cog."
Christine chimed in: "A whole bag of them."
"She's exhibited steadily worsening behavior since we
woke up on the plane. Demanding answers when answers were
obviously out of our reach, refusing to accept Frank's
authority, heading off on her own. I have to assume she's
been pushed past the limits of reason."
Christine said, "She needs a good shrink."
Solomon gave a sorrowful laugh. His hand was finally
bandaged, Jill saw, although blood had spotted through.
He rubbed it absentmindedly. "Afraid that's a bit out of
reach right now. Best we can do at the moment is keep her
restrained."
"Very well, I hope," Jill murmured. She felt very
unsettled about Catherine, bound or not, especially out
of sight.
Frank said: "We cut strips off of a tablecloth and wove
them into thin, very strong braids. Then we bound her
hand and foot. She's not going anywhere, Jill, you have
my word."
"I'd still like to see," Jill said.
The rest of the group escorted her outside. Despite
knowing what to expect, the sight of a United States
senator laying hog-tied on the floor, the lower half of
her head bound in surgical tape--Jill could well imagine
what an ordeal getting her hair free of the tape would
be--brought an instant pang of sympathy.
"Can't you at least sit her up?" she said. "Or put down
something to lay on?"
Frank gave her a look saying, don't try my patience,
okay? Then he said to Solomon, "Would you like to pick up
where you left off, before we were so rudely
interrupted?"
Solomon looked at him, dazed and blinking. "What?"
"Your hypothesis," Frank said. "You were comparing Flight
74 with the Mary Celeste?"
Solomon looked lost for words. Finally, clearing his
throat and looking askance at Catherine on the floor--she
returned his glance with a hell-fire glare--he said: "I
was offering a correlation between our plight and
theirs."
Catherine made sudden angry noises through her surgical
tape gag and kicked at Solomon's feet. He backed away.
Jill understood Catherine's indignant, "Let me up!" even
through the gag. The surrealness of the situation was
compounded by the muted thud of her heels on the carpet
and the muffled sounds of her cries.
"Shut the hell up, Catherine," Frank warned. "Before I
take you over my knee."
Despite her instantaneous expression of outrage, Jill
thought there was something more to Frank's threat than
simple intimidation. Especially when Catherine cut her
eyes around to see who may have understood.
Solomon, after clearing his throat for the second time,
continued: "I think we've all made the wrong assumption
about what happened on the plane. When the rest of the
passengers disappeared and we began to find out how wrong
things were on the ground--"
"And in the sky," Christine said.
"--and the sky too, yes, we immediately assumed something
happened to the rest of the world. An easy enough
assumption to make, given we were fine and everything
else had gone to shit. But the evidence doesn't support
that. I think what happened, happened only to us. I think
the rest of the world is just cruisin' along just as
hunky-dorry as ever, hardly missing us at all. Only the
eight passengers Flight 74 are lost. Lost and without a
whole hell of a lot of possibility of getting back."
"Maybe I'm just dumb," Christine complained, after a
moment's intense thought, "but I have no idea what the
fuck you're talking about."
"Me either," Jessica said.
Neither did Jill, but from the expectant look on
Gregory's face, she suspected he did.
Solomon said: "There's been other high profile
disappearances besides the Mary Celeste. Amelia Earhart
in the Pacific back in 1938, the squadron of Navy P-51's
just after the war--"
"The Bermuda Triangle," Gregory interjected, excitedly.
"Back in 1945!"
"Yes, exactly. They received a garbled transmission from
the flight leader, saying his instruments had all gone
haywire, then they disappeared."
"And the rescue plane disappeared as well," Gregory
added. "Just the same way."
"Anyway, what I'm getting at is that each of these
disappearances took place at sea, or very close to the
sea, as in Roanoke Island. In fact, there've been so many
disappearances at sea, people have made fortunes writing
up their stories."
Gregory said: "I've read every single one." He glanced
around as the others laughed, his grin turning wry. "I
just never expected to be in the middle of one, you
know?"
The others--except Catherine Montes--laughed again.
"What about over land, though?" Christine asked. "I've
never heard of that."
"It happens with small planes," Frank said, "all the
time. About sixty years ago, it actually happened with a
commercial airliner. This was back in 1955 or '56. There
were about a hundred people aboard. Out of Denver bound
for San Francisco, and right about seven o'clock, the
pilot made last contact with the Reno tower. Then it
disappeared. There was a massive search, of course, but
since it went down over the Rockies... well, it may never
be found."
Solomon nodded thoughtfully. "They might as well not have
even looked."
Jill threw up her hands in frustration. "Solomon! This is
all great as a history lesson, but what do you know?" She
grimaced from the pain in her chest. "If you don't tell
me what's going on... I swear to God I'll go just as
crazy as Catherine!"
Catherine thumped both heels on the carpet in answer. She
shouted muffled obscenities around her gag. Jill looked
at her uncomfortably, muttering an obtuse apology, then
moved a step further away.
Christine echoed Jill's thoughts. "I'll probably go nutzo
whether you explain it not," she said. "But a little
light at the end of tunnel wouldn't hurt."
Solomon gave a sigh. "Okay, let's count the things down.
First, there's a mess on the airplane, but nothing down
here. Second, power's out here, but the food and drinks
should still be cold, sitting there in their cases. But
they're right at room temperature. Then there's the
matches. Christine lit up on the plane and also down
here, and her matches worked fine. The matches from the
basket over there might as well be made of wood. Then the
gun Catherine picked up from who knows where barely
fired... thank, God for that... and the battery powered
lights up there on the wall don't work."
Everyone turned to follow Solomon's pointing finger. True
enough, the emergency lighting throughout the entire
concourse was out.
"The clocks here all read twelve o'clock," he continued.
"If the batteries had died, they would have stopped
somewhere between four and six a.m. Instead, they seem to
be waiting. The whole place seems to be waiting. We have
ourselves a world where everything is newly-minted and
waiting to be used. But things are like prop pieces in a
play, or the background set of some movie... real looking
but totally fake. Two dimensional, almost. We still give
off scents--I can smell Tanya and Jill's perfume when we
get close together--but everything else is practically
odorless. The same is true for sounds. Flat and one-
dimensional, as though heard from an old AM radio. They
barely carry and they don't echo at all."
As though offering up an example, Catherine chose that
moment to erupt in a fit. Banging her heels on the
carpeting and caterwauling around the gag, she
nonetheless sounded almost distant. Jill was reminded of
the dull clack-clack-clack of her heels climbing the
steps. It was like the air didn't want to transmit sound.
"I got worse news for you than that," Christine said."If
you want to know."
Solomon and everyone else turned to stare. Casting an
uncertain look first at Gregory, who gave her an
encouraging smile, she said: "You're not going to like
this at all."
"Go on."
"It's the sun."
"What about it?" Frank said.
"It's not moving."
Frank snorted and rolled his eyes. "That's impossible. Go
away."
Christine grew an angry red. "Look around yourself then!"
she retorted. "You'll see!"
Frank waved the suggestion aside. "There's some things
even this weird place can't entertain," he said. "And
that's one of them."
With the exception of Solomon, everyone nodded in
reluctant agreement... Solomon stared worriedly at one of
the shadows cast across the floor. He followed the line
of demarcation between light and shadow back to the tall
concourse windows, and when he spoke, his voice wavered a
bit. "What makes you say that, Christine?"
"Because," she said, "when I sat my pack of cigarettes
down on the table over there... " everyone followed the
direction of her pointed finger "... I lined it up
edgewise with the shadow. That was fifteen minutes ago
and the shadow hasn't moved."
For a long moment, all eyes locked onto the red, white
and black pack of Marlboro's. Then, en masse, they moved
to encircle the table. Jill momentarily blocked the
light, then scuttles hurriedly out of the way. As
Christine had said, the long edge of the pack and the
shadow neatly aligned.
"You moved it," Frank said. "You had to have moved it.
You just don't remember doing it."
Christine shook her head. "I haven't been near this table
since I first put it down. That was before Catherine...
well, before Jill got shot. I've been over there ever
since."
Everyone stared hard at the shadow. They held their
collective breaths. Because, Jill realized, if the shadow
stayed put, and Christine were right... it meant a whole
lot more was wrong with this picture than flat buildings
and odorless beer.
And that thought absolutely terrified her.
"What if she's right?" Gregory said, after a thirty-
second wait.
"She isn't."
"But what if she is?"
Frank refused to budge. "First of all," he said. "the sun
doesn't make the shadow move. The earth makes the shadow
move, rotating on its axis. For the shadow not to move,
the earth would have to be stopped. The earth weighs
eighty billion billion tons. Its nine thousand miles in
diameter. It travels through space at forty-thousand
miles an hour. Nothing but the hand of God could alter
its progression by even a single degree. And it would
take the hand of God to stop it."
Even as he said this, however, Jill realized that the
shadow-line had maintained a hammer-lock on its position.
The distance between it and the cigarette pack's edge
hadn't changed even a millimeter.
It should have moved, she thought, the sound of blood
thudding in her ears. It should have moved a lot. But, as
she continued to stare unblinkingly at the straight-edge
of light, the tip-toeing specter of madness bared it's
vicious claws. And that's when Jill perceived that a
sound had impinged on the dreadful silence of the place.
That some distant thing was out there in this flat-as-a-
pancake world, heading determinedly this way. Some thing
worse than the uncooperative knife-edge of light.
It was the sound of death.
"What is that?" she said in a tiny, high-pitched squeak.
Tanya looked up. "What?"
"That noise. That noise, what is it?"
As a group, the others looked at her, then at the windows
across the concourse, then concentrated their looks on
Jessica.
"I told you so," she said.
Solomon broke away, then Frank, then everyone else. They
scurried across the concourse to the tall plates of
glass, Jessica trailing behind. Lining up at the glass,
they all looked out. All except Jessica and Jill, who
heard it well enough.
"I told you," Jessica repeated.
Barking out a "Sshhhh!" Frank leaned close to the glass.
"What the hell is that?"
The others shook their heads. Jill and Jessica exchanged
looks. You have some really good ears, Jill thought, to
have heard that before. Because, although the sound was
there, it was still very faint. And from the expressions
on Gregory's, Christine's and Tanya's faces, she wasn't
sure they heard it at all. But she certainly did. And if
her sense of direction was right, it was coming from the
east.
Jill felt the skin all over her upper body goose-flesh.
She shivered violently. What had Jessica said: The
crackling of an old cassette tape? To Jill it sounded
more like the static of Solomon's old AM radio. But she
agreed with Jessica about one thing; it sounded bad. It
sounded very, very bad.
Frank turned toward Solomon. "What do you make of that,
Solomon? Any ideas?"
"No," Solomon said. "Not even a clue. I'm not even sure I
hear it."
"You hear it, all right," Jessica said, softly. "You just
don't want to admit it."
Solomon gave her a worried look. "Is it closer?" he
asked.
Jessica nodded her head. The way she clutched herself
across the chest, Jill knew she had goose-flesh as well.
"How much closer?" Solomon asked.
Jessica shrugged. "Not sure. A ways away yet, but
closer."
Tanya left the window and came to join Jill. "I don't
hear it," she said, "But I have significant hearing loss
in both ears. The higher frequencies, which is where it
must be."
Jill thought Tanya's hearing loss might have been
fortunate. She hated hearing the sound. She said:
"Jessica's right, we really need to leave."
"No," Frank said. "What we really need is to find out
what's going on, and then leave. Heading someplace else
where the noise might be even closer, is not a good
plan."
"Then head west," Jessica said. "Away from the noise.
Away from the east."
"We don't know for sure that's where the noise is," Frank
said.
"It is!" Jessica insisted.
Jill was reminded of high school football games in the
fall, played on the athletic field of the high school
behind her house. Although the front of her house faced
away from the field, she often heard the boisterous
cheering and the cacophonous loud speaker from the front,
as sound bounced off the townhouses across the street. It
had always fooled her guests. Still, she had a deep, if
unprovable conviction, that the sound was only to the
east.
"I say we finish off where we left," Frank said, "and
plot out a course of action."
"I think he's right," Solomon said.
"I think we should get out of here while we can,"
Christine disagreed.
"Me too," Gregory said.
Solomon shook his head. "Without a plan, we're just
running around in the dark. Let's finish up what we
started."
The others, Jessica included, grudgingly agreed. They
returned to where Catherine lay on the floor.
"I'm undoing your feet," Frank told her. "So you can sit
up. Any funny business and its back on the floor.
Understand?"
Catherine's eyes blazed anger, but she nodded agreement.
Frank pulled loose the knots from around her ankles and
she allowed herself to be stood up. They escorted her
into the restaurant where Solomon and Frank guided her
into a chair.
"Stay put," Frank said.
Catherine cursed him through the gag.
"Bitch!"
Catherine cursed again.
"I'm not undoing your gag," Frank said. "So just forget--
"
"She has to go the bathroom," Christine interrupted. "And
so do I."
"Me too," Jessica said.
Tanya smiled apologetically and raised her hand. So did
Jill.
Frank, already red in the face, became even redder. Then
he looked resigned. "Okay," he said. "All of you go." He
handed the flashlight to Tanya. "Do not undo her hands,"
he said. "Someone will have to wipe her."
Tanya and Christine assisted Catherine to her feet--
Jessica remained a safe distance away, as did Jill, their
eyes watchful and a little scared--and the group of five
headed toward the ladies bathroom. Exchanging looks, the
three men smiled.
"Women," Frank said, with mock disgust.
One at a time, Gregory first, the three men went to the
rear of the store, where Gregory had discovered a small,
employee restroom. Not unexpectedly, there was no water
in the bowl and no running water when Gregory tried the
tap. He urinated in the empty bowl, the sound
unexpectedly dull in the tiny room. When he came back
out, he washed his hands using one of the bottles of
Dasani bottled water. He wiped his hands on his pants.
"Bet the girls love this," he said, grinning wryly. Both
Frank and Solomon laughed. When the three of them went
outside to await the return of the girls, Gregory's mouth
fell open.
Solomon muttered, "My God, who is this?"
Christine had transformed from a frog into a princess. If
not a princess, at least into a pretty young girl. The
nose-stud was gone, as were the plethora of jewelry which
had adorned her ears. Her fingers were also bare, save
the third finger on her right hand. That sported a thin,
silver heart-shaped ring with an inset diamond. Her face
was devoid of make-up; no longer did she look like Rickie
the Raccoon. And although unable to do much about her
hair without the presence of water, she had at least
brushed it out.
"Wow!" Solomon commented. "It's a girl!"
Christine shot him a mock-injured look. "Watch it," she
said.
Gregory, red-faced and shuffling from foot to foot,
grinned ear-to-ear.
After exchanging glances with Tanya and Jill, Jessica
said: "I'd like to introduce Elise Gallo. She turned up
in the ladies' restroom."
Gregory's grin faltered. "What?"
Christine looked at him, shrugging in a way that said,
I'm sorry. "Kinda useless keeping up the disguise. Not
like anyone here'll find me."
Gregory said: "I don't understand."
He was not the only one confused. Solomon stared at
Christine/Elise for a moment with a furrowed brow, then
said: "You're the missing Gallo wine heiress?"
Elise said, "Yes."
Further comment seemed to escape him, so he merely said:
"I see."
Frank had no such trouble. "You've been on the run for
quite a while now," he observed. "Nearly a month."
Elise fidgeted nervously. "I guess," she answered,
defensively. "It's not like you think."
The story was coming back to Jill. The heir to the
orchards of Ernest and Julio Gallo, one of California's
most celebrated landmarks, Elise Gallo had disappeared a
month or more back. Kidnapping was suspected at first,
but when no ransom note arrived and a week passed without
word, the authorities's suspicions--and those of the
press--turned to foul play. Two weeks later Elise was
discovered in Portland, Washington, camped out at the
home of a friend. She then disappeared again.
Frank addressed Elise, levelly: "The FBI and half of law
enforcement on the West Coast is looking for you, young
lady."
"I know that."
Frank's face was a dangerous red. "It may seem like
innocent fun hacking bank and corporate security systems,
but when you start screwing around with air traffic
control, you put lives at risk. Many lives. Being young
and stupid doesn't exonerate you from responsibility. You
should have given yourself up."
Elise looked away. "I swear, I had nothing to do with
that. I would never do anything to hurt another person,
much less a whole plane load of them. You have to believe
me."
Frank grit his teeth. "LAX was shut down for two whole
days. The whole fucking western region suffered recurring
crashes for two weeks, and they still haven't got back up
to snuff. Just two days ago Los Angeles Tracon failed
again and two hundred flights had to be canceled. God
only knows how many near misses there were. Two 727's
came within feet of colliding! Do you know how many lives
would have been lost?"
Elise began to cry. "I didn't do it!" she exclaimed.
"Somebody used my computer!"
Frank's jaw muscles worked. "You expect me to believe
that?"
Elise yelled: "I don't care what you believe! I didn't
kill those people!"
"What people?" Jill cried in horror, although she already
knew.
"The people on Flight 701!"
Jill fainted dead away.
Chapter 10
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
9:05 A.M. PDT (12:05 PM. EDT)
Concourse Level, Mid-field Concourse
Dulles International Airport,
Washington, D.C.
She awoke this time out on the concourse, on her back
again, but this time on a row of cushioned seats. Once
again, Tanya rubbed her hair.
"What happened?" she asked.
Tanya smiled sadly. "You fainted again."
"Three times," Jill groaned. "I'm setting a record."
Tanya's eyes held only sadness.
"It was about the plane," she said. "Wasn't it?"
Tanya nodded. "She didn't do it, Jill."
"What?"
"Elise and her friends were breaking into systems all
over the county, disrupting public utilities, stealing
bank records, stuff like that. They even found a way into
the Air Traffic Control system."
"God, no," Jill groaned.
"One of the boys was of Middle Eastern descent--his name
was Fisal something--and Elise says he was absolutely
brilliant. He was also the nephew of some al-Queda bigwig
as it turns out, and they got him to sabotage the system
during the busiest moment of the busiest day of the week.
Unfortunately, your mom just happened to be on a plane
that went down in the confusion." She squeezed Jill's
hands tightly. "Frank said it had nothing to do with your
mother's plane. It was almost certainly a fuel tank
explosion like happened with the TWA flight over Long
Island."
Relieved, though no less angry with Elise, Jill asked,
"Was he investigating the crash?"
"Heading it up," Tanya said. "He was on his way back to
Washington to listen to the cockpit voice recorder."
Jill nodded. She remembered it was discovered amongst the
wreckage four hundred feet down. The second box, the
flight date recorder, had not yet been recovered.
"Where is he now?" she asked.
"In talking with Solomon, I suppose."
Jill stood up. "Come on," she said, casting an
apprehensive glance back at the windows--was the noise
louder now?-- "Let's go back in."
Tanya continued to hold her arm. Suddenly her hand slid
down Jill's biceps and forearm and into her open hand and
she gripped it. The two stood very close together, eyes
locked.
I want you to kiss me, Jill thought. And suddenly Tanya
did.
*
Everyone looked around as they entered the restaurant. If
anyone guessed that only moments before, they had just
been locked in a passionate, desperately wonderful kiss,
they didn't let on. Solomon, Frank and Jessica sat at a
table two rows back--Catherine stared hard at them from
the table beside it--while Christine (Elise, Jill
reminded herself) and Gregory shared a table in back. The
two sat very close together, evidently in deep
conversation. Meeting Jill's eyes for only a second,
Elise cast her eyes down. She wrung her hands on the
table. Her cigarette pack, still untouched, bordered the
knife-edge of light cutting across the nearest table.
"You okay?" Solomon asked.
"Fine. Thank you."
"How about something to drink? Some water?"
Jill shook her head. "We don't have time to waste. Let's
not waste it."
Solomon nodded. Then he motioned for Elise and Gregory to
join them. "What we have here," he said, "is a completely
impossible situation. Nothing moves. Not the sun, not the
air, not the clouds. It's like a picture postcard you can
walk into. It has depth and texture and substance, but
time stands absolutely still. Energy doesn't exist here,
nor does sound, and neither, I think, does life."
He paused for a moment, suddenly looking frightened and
helpless and old. "I think it's about time," he
continued. "Not some other dimension, as Christine--I
mean, Elise--suggested, but time. Suppose that, every now
and then, a hole appears in the time-space continuum? A
warp of some kind, like happens around a worm hole or a
cosmic string. A rip in the temporal fabric."
"Like in Star Trek," Gregory ventured.
"Only instead of jumping through time," Solomon
continued, "supposed we jumped out of time altogether."
"That's the craziest thing I ever heard!" Frank
exclaimed.
"No," Solomon replied. "What's happening to us here...
that's crazy."
Frank scowled, but said nothing more.
"Go on," Jill urged.
Solomon nodded. "I'm not saying that this is absolutely
right. It could be completely wrong. Or somewhere in the
middle. I'm just offering my hypothesis. But say such a
rip occurs every now and then, for whatever reason,
mostly over unpopulated areas. The Earth is seventy-
percent covered by water; so most often that would apply.
But statistics always tell you that sooner or later,
whatever can happen will happen."
He cleared his throat. "So let's assume that tonight...
this morning... whenever it was, one of these things did
appear over land and we flew right threw it. Our bad
luck. And maybe the bad luck of other aircraft as well.
We just don't know. Some weird property of sleep made it
possible for us to make it through alive, where everyone
else was subtracted."
"This is unimaginable," Frank said, rubbing his brow.
"I agree completely," Solomon said. "But give me a better
scenario."
Frank lowered his head into both palms.
"It sounds right to me," Elise said in a low voice.
"We're out of step with... with everything."
"You shut the hell up!" Frank yelled, raising his head.
"I wouldn't be here if not for you!"
Elise jerked as though slapped.
"Take it easy, Frank," Solomon put in, softly. "The girl
isn't responsible for our problems."
Frank directed his anger Solomon's way. "Maybe not! But
she's damn well responsible for what she is responsible
for. I've spent the better part of my adult life
confronting the aftermath of human mistakes. No one
understands how unforgiving that aftermath is. For a
bunch of stupid kids to mess around with the safety of
thousands of innocent passengers... well that's a hard
thing for a man like me to forgive."
Elise turned away, rose from the table and walked out to
the concourse; sobs racked her thin frame. Gregory joined
her, putting an arm around her shoulders. Jill was
stunned enough by Frank's vehement outburst to feel sorry
for the girl. She put her hand on top of Frank's.
"Leave it alone, Frank."
"What?"
"Everyone does stupid things. If my friends and I had to
account for every prank we pulled in high school, I'd
still be in jail."
Frank's eyes flashed. His jaw muscles worked. He appeared
to be heading for a tirade when Tanya said: "Frank,
Jill's mother died in the crash."
Frank blinked his eyes. Gulping hard, he said: "What?"
Jill slowly nodded.
"Oh, my God," Frank said, looking suddenly defeated. "I'm
so sorry."
Jill withdrew her hand. "So am I. So is Elise. But she
didn't crash the plane."
Staring at the pair of teenagers out in the concourse,
Frank nodded. "Okay, let's move on."
Rising, Jill went out to the concourse and brought Elise
and Gregory back. Elise didn't resist, but neither did
she want to come. The three of them sat down.
After an uncomfortable silence, Gregory asked. "What
happened to the crew and the rest of passengers?" His
expression said he didn't really want to know. "If the
airplane came through, and we came through, what happened
to them?"
Jill's imagination provided her an answer. In her mind's
eye, she witnessed hundreds of passengers tumbling
through the open air, yelling and shrieking in the
frigid, sub-zero conditions, as lack of oxygen knocked
them out. They continued to plummeted earthward, their
clothes ripping apart, shoes torn from their feet, change
and other personal items ripped away from their pockets--
what wasn't left on the airplane--before impacting the
ground. She would not allow herself to envision that.
"My guess is nothing at all," Solomon said. "They all
still exist. I suspect that unlike the Mary Celeste, our
aircraft remained in the air, continuing to fly with its
crew and remaining passengers, and is even now sitting
someplace on the ground, chock full of inspectors, with a
great many questions being asked."
"It is?" Jill, Frank and Gregory asked together. Even
Christine blinked her eyes.
"Yes. I think that's one of the manifestations of this
particular event. I think every event is slightly, if not
subtly different. I think in this case, the rip is more
of a thinness in time, allowing some of us to pass
through it--those of us asleep and less tied to reality,
for instance--and others to continue on. The aircraft
continues to exist in both timeframes at once, both here
and there, with us and the other passenger attempting to
figure out what had happened. I also think that whatever
this place is, we are not meant to be here. It's more
alien to human life right now than the surface of the
moon." He shook his head. "I have the feeling we've
contaminated someone's carefully laid out universe, and
that somebody is really pissed."
Christine looked at him as though he'd just introduced
God himself, which Jill imagined he had.
"Get to the bottom line," Frank said. "Because wherever
we are, whatever place this is, whatever time it is, I
have a bad feeling that it's very late in the day. That
noise is getting louder and I want to know how it fits
into the scenario."
To Jill, the noise was the scenario.
Solomon said. "The bottom line is this. We've gone
through this time-rip and somehow into the future. Only
it's not really time-travel we've done; it's stepping out
of time. You won't see the next great push forward in
man's ascension to the throne: the first rocket trip to
Mars or a trip to a distant star. You won't see the
medical breakthroughs like the first cloned baby or the
cure for AIDS."
He spread his arms to encompass their whole silent
world.
"Take a good look around you, fellow time-travellers.
This is the future. Empty and silent. A universe waiting
to be born. A template into which all life and all energy
will soon arrive. We may have hopped an absurdly short
distance into the future, as little as six or seven
hours, or as little as ten minutes... who knows. But the
sun is right overhead and the clocks are set at twelve
o'clock noon. When the rest of existence catches up to
us, they'll exit out of the timeframe they're in--like a
frame of celluloid film--and continue on into this one.
Because that's how its done. Time chopped into finite
little mouthfuls, easier to maintain and to adjust. And
when this one is done, worn out or whatever happens to
it, maybe in a day, maybe in a billion years, the next
timeframe will be waiting, brand new and pretty."
"Couldn't this be the past?" Gregory asked cautiously.
Solomon shook his head. "I have the feeling the past is
even worse. A world... a whole universe, slowly winding
down. Sensory input disappearing. Electricity gone. The
weather what it was when you made the jump into the past.
A universe where time itself is winding down in a kind of
spiral... crowding in on itself."
Solomon suddenly looked very tired. "I don't know this
for sure, of course--how could I? But that place would
feel old and stupid and feeble and meaningless. Here it
feels... I don't know... "
Elise spoke up. "It feels new," she said.
"Yes," Solomon agreed. "New. That's the word I was
looking for."
"Solomon?"
"Yes, Jessica?"
"The sound is getting worse." She paused. "It's closer
now. Much closer."
They all fell silent. Jill heard the noise much better
herself. It was... what? Not static, after all, but like
the buzzing of angry bees. Giant, tremendously angry
bees.
"I want to go out by the windows again," Solomon said. He
rose from the table and strode from the restaurant
without another word.
"Hey!" Gregory cried. "Wait for us!"
They all followed, all except Catherine, who struggled
loudly in her chair. Jill and Jessica trailed behind.
They stopped in the doorway to watch.
"You don't want to go?" Jill asked.
"I can hear it fine from here," Jessica said. She paused
and added: "We're going to hear it a lot better though, I
think, if we don't get out of here soon."
Jill glanced over to where Tanya stood peering out the
window. Solomon stood beside her.
"You like her," Jessica said softly.
Jill nodded her head.
"Did you know each other before?"
"Just met her tonight. Today. Whatever," she said,
laughing softly.
"You're lucky," Jessica said, looking rather wistfully
across the room.
Jill watched her words. "You were involved with someone,
Jess? Someone not on the plane?"
Jessica stared at the incongruously blue sky. "A boy
named Steven Greer. We were, well... very close. He moved
out to Maryland last winter, and I was on my way out to
visit." She shifted uncomfortably, playing with the end
of her ponytail.
"You were going without permission," Jill said, guessing
the truth.
Jessica shrugged. "I planned it out for months. I booked
the flight myself yesterday morning, online--God, was
that only yesterday?--so that my mom wouldn't know. Right
now they're in San Diego, at their time-share condo. I
was staying with my aunt."
Jill concluded that her earlier assessment of Jessica's
age was wrong. "How old are you really, Jessica?" she
asked.
"Fourteen."
Jill mouthed the word to herself and Jessica offered a
sheepish grin. "Guess I'm in trouble, huh?"
Jill could only nod.
Going back into the restaurant they sat down at the table
across from Catherine. The woman's eyes beseeched them to
take off the gag. Knowing the idea was a bad one, Jill
rose again and began unwinding the tape.
"Should we really do that?" Jessica asked.
"It'll be all right. Right, Catherine?"
Catherine swiveled her eyes upward, then nodded. She made
noises through the tape. Jill was amazed how well the
tape had her gagged.
"Thank, God!" Catherine exclaimed, when the last winding
came off. She grimaced as Jill worked it loose from her
hair, then said, "I could bloody well kiss you!" She ran
her tongue over her lips.
"Get her some water, Jess."
"Bless you both!" Catherine flashed a brilliant white
smile. "Untie my hands?
"Don't push it, Catherine," Jill warned.
Catherine bridled slightly, but then relaxed. "At least
you have some common decency," she said. "Not like the
others."
Approaching Catherine slowly, Jess unscrewed the water
bottle's top. She started to bring up the bottle, before
Jill took it away.
"I'll do that." She put the bottle to Catherine's lips.
"Drink slowly, Catherine."
Catherine watched her with impenetrable eyes. After
taking down half the bottle's contents, she said, "Take
me to Frank."
"I don't thing that's a good idea," Jill said, replacing
the plastic cap. She glanced nervously out to the
windows. "Frank is not in a very good mood."
"He's going to be in a worse mood when I'm through with
him," Catherine growled. "When we get back from wherever
we are, he'll be lucky to get a bush-piloting job, or
running cocaine in from Colombia after dark."
Jill looked at Catherine in wonder. "Catherine, are you
aware of what's going on here? What's happened to us?"
"Of course I'm aware!" Catherine spat back. "You
kidnapped me and now you're holding me against my will!"
Jill and Jessica exchanged looks. They both shook their
heads. This woman is certifiably nuts, Jill thought. She
tried a different approach.
"Who was it you wanted to see in town?"
Catherine's look immediately became guarded. "I'd rather
not say."
Jill ventured, "It must have been very important for you
to have resorted to such drastic measures, Catherine."
"It is," Catherine corrected. "Very important."
"Then you should let us help. We're all in this together,
you know. What's important for you, is important for us."
Catherine gave Jill a considering look. Then she said:
"Have either of you ever heard of the langoliers?"
Jill blinked, but before she could give an answer, Tanya
entered the room. After raising her eyebrows, she said:
"Frank wants to see us out at the windows."
"What about her?" Jessica asked.
Tanya said, "I'll stay with her. Just try and hurry
back."
Jill nodded and handed Tanya the bottle of water. "She
might want more of this."
Tanya asked: "Get anything out of her?"
Jill thought for a moment about Catherine's weird
question, then shook her head. She wasn't bringing up
anything she didn't understand. "Nothing," she said.
Then, along with Jessica, she went out to join the others
at the windows. But she wasn't halfway across the room
when the thought hit her: God, it's so much louder now.
The goose-flesh on her chest and arms erupted again, and
beside her, Jessica shivered. The final ten feet before
reaching the windows, she had to force herself to walk.
Solomon turned to greet them. "Our mysterious noise is
getting louder," he said. "Any ideas?"
Both Jill and Jessica shook their heads.
"All I know is I don't want to be here when it hits
town," Jill said. She reached out and touched the glass
with her hand. Either she imagined it, or the window was
vibrating faintly. The feel gave her a bone-numbing
dread.
"We have to get out of here!" Elise suddenly cried. "We
have to get out of here now!" Her voice cracked like that
of an eleven-year old child's. Gregory put an arm around
her shoulders and she gripped it between her shoulder and
jaw. There was no mistaking her continual shiver.
Solomon said, "She's right. We have to get out of here."
Turning to Frank, he inquired: "What Jill suggested
earlier, about refueling the plane? Is that possible? Can
it be done?"
Everyone stared at Frank in expectation, except Jill, who
realized what no one else understood, not even Solomon,
as sharp as he was. That no matter how much fuel there
might be, or how easily it might be loaded, except for
the fuel already aboard Flight 74, the 767 was a
flightless bird. This understanding made her feel like a
penny dropping down a very deep well.
"Again," Frank said. "Where would we go? New York?
Chicago? Bangor, Maine?"
"I don't care where, Frank. Just away from here."
"Okay, maybe. With the help of a few able-bodied men.
What then?"
"Then we take off again!" Solomon yelled. Sweat stood out
on his deeply lined face. "The time-rip is several
thousand miles to our west. That sound is coming from the
east. If we refueled now, and retraced our original
course... could that be done?"
"Well, yes," Frank admitted. "I left on the APU. The INS
computer is still on, which means the program is intact.
It contains our exact movements and headings from the
moment Flight 74 left the ground. The auto pilot would
fly us right back to the rip, considering of course, that
it's still there. Is that what you have in mind?"
"Of course!" Solomon exclaimed. "Don't you see?"
Jill's train of thought got shunted off to a side-track.
If Flight 74 was on a frequently used heading--she
remembered reading somewhere that aircraft followed each
other through the sky--then how many other aircraft had
gone through the rip? And how many other minuscule bands
of survivors might there be, sitting on the ground at
distant airports, trying to figure this out?
None, she thought, realizing the truth. We had a pilot
aboard. One who fell asleep. What were the chances of
that happening twice? Then she said. "He might or he
might not, Solomon. It doesn't really matter, because
we're not going anywhere in that plane."
Everyone turned to face her.
"Why not?" Jessica asked.
"Remember the matches? The ones that wouldn't light? And
Catherine's gun?"
Solomon put one large hand to his forehead and staggered
backward against the glass. "Oh, God," he croaked. "Oh,
God, no."
"What?" Jessica asked. "What is it?"
"Don't you see?" Solomon said quietly. "If matches don't
light, and gunpowder doesn't burn--"
"--then jet-fuel won't burn, either," Jill finished. "It
may as well be dog piss for all the good it does us in
this world." She looked at each of the others in turn and
then finished: "Whatever that noise is, we can not outrun
it."
Chapter 11
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
10:10 A.M. PDT (1:10 P.M. EDT)
Concourse Level, Mid-field Concourse
Dulles International Airport,
Washington, D.C.
"What are these langoliers you talked about, earlier?"
Jessica asked, sometime later. She, Tanya and Jill sat
with Catherine around the table. The mood was glum.
Catherine jumped as though pinched on the leg; she looked
nervously out at the tall windows where the others stood,
talking.
"I'm not sure you'll want to hear this," she said
cautiously. "You might be scared."
"Don't talk to her, Jessica," Tanya said, irritably.
"She's mental."
Catherine's face grew red. "I wouldn't have hurt anyone,"
she said. "I was frightened. Aren't you frightened?"
"Yes," Tanya snapped, "but I don't take hostages of
teenage girls and shoot defenseless woman when I'm
frightened."
Catherine grimaced slightly. She peered at the blood-
ringed hole in Jill's white blouse and then quickly away.
She mumbled a half-heard apology.
After an extended silence, Jessica said: "Tell me about
the langoliers, Senator."
Catherine sat up. "Well, I used to think they were just
made up," she said in a mellow enough voice. "Now I'm not
so sure." She looked again toward the rest of the group
out at the windows. "I hear that noise and I think maybe
my mother was right."
Jessica looked out at the windows. "That sound is the
langoliers?"
Putting a hand on Jessica's shoulder, Jill cautioned:
"Don't jump to conclusions, Jess. We don't know what that
noise is."
"I know," Jessica said, "but I want to hear what she has
to say. That's all right, isn't it?"
Tanya said, "I guess so. Just don't get to carried away
in her tale. She's not stable."
Jessica gave her a laconic smile; Catherine's look was
glacial. Then her expression softened and the smile that
came on her face reflected the charm and force of
personality which had kept Catherine Montes firmly
entrenched in politics for twenty-one years.
"My mother claimed the langoliers were awful little
creatures that lived in sewers and deserted old mines and
dark places like that."
"The monster in the closet," Jessica said.
Catherine laughed. "Quite so, I'm afraid. She told me
what they really were was gristle and teeth and powerful
little legs, legs so powerful and fast that bad little
boys and girls--girls especially, she said--didn't stand
a chance. No matter how fast they ran, the langoliers
could always catch up."
"Oh, for God sakes, Catherine," Tanya said. "Give us a
break."
"I'd love to," Catherine said, nastily. She leaned
forward. Her eyes flashed. "My uncle Roger used to tell
the very same tale to my cousin Craig. When they were
very young kids, my uncle Roger said, he and my mother
got chased up a tree out back of their house. The
langoliers caught them playing doctor and wouldn't let
then down again the whole night. My mother was naked and
Uncle Roger was fully dressed." Catherine laughed. How
else would a session of Doctor progress between
youngsters, the laugh said. "Anyway, my grandparents sat
at the window laughing for hours on end, taunting them
with how badly the langoliers teeth would ravage their
tender skin and what they'd do to them with their claws.
That was the worst part, my mother used to say, what they
would do to you with their teeth and claws."
Catherine leaned back in the chair, and despite herself,
Jill shivered. "If you're trying to frighten us,
Catherine," she said. "You're doing a fine job."
Catherine smiled tightly. "If ever a time there was to be
frightened, my dear, isn't this it?"
Jill didn't reply and after a moment Catherine resumed.
"My mother said there were thousands of langoliers. She
said there had to be, because there were millions of bad
little girls like me. Bad little girls who didn't learn
from the previous generations lessons and would face the
langoliers themselves. Face them and find out what really
happened with their teeth and claws."
"Stop it!" Tanya barked. "This is totally absurd. You
can't--"
"Tell me you haven't heard them yourself," Catherine
said, robbing Tanya's steam. "In bed at night, with your
finger up your little hole, thinking of all the bad
little things you learned as a child and now do as a big
adult? Don't you hear the sound of crunching and smacking
coming your way in the darkness, and even if you try to
scamper off, you know your short little legs are no match
for the powerful ones on the langoliers. They run faster
than any little whore with a--"
"That's enough," Tanya said, coming right out of her
seat. Her voice was high and hard. "Say one more word,
Catherine, and I swear I'll smack your mouth!"
Catherine settled back in her chair. Her expression was
smug. "The sound is out there," she said softly. "You
can't deny that. And the sound is the least horrible
thing about the langoliers."
Tanya ground her teeth and clenched her fists on the
table; Catherine rose from her chair and sat down in one
two tables away. "Okay," she said. "I can tell when I'm
not wanted. A person gets tired of being beaten when
they're down."
Tanya turned away and said nothing.
Shaking her head, Jill thought: This woman is as looney
as a toon; crazy as a bedbug; cracked as a cooter. And
yet, that noise was growing louder by the very second.
Soon it would be--
"You must have been very afraid of your mother," Jessica
said.
Catherine looked around, startled. She smiled again, but
this smile was different. It was totally devoid of
pleasure. She said. "I was terrified of my mother."
"Is she dead?"
Catherine paused. She gave a drawn out, "Yes," and slowly
blinked.
"Was she caught by the langoliers?" Jessica asked. "Doing
something they didn't like?"
Catherine looked into space for a very long time. Jill
wondered if she had drifted off into some other plane, a
world where things like the langoliers really existed.
Then she looked up.
"My mother drank herself to death, young lady. She had a
penchant for vodka on the rocks. One night she drank one
vodka-rocks too many, threw up on the couch and choked on
her own vomit. I was seventeen."
After an appropriate amount of silence, Jessica said:
"And you blame yourself for her death?"
"Yes," Catherine said thoughtfully. "I guess I do. I
guess I always did."
"Senator?"
"What?"
"I know this is kinda stupid coming from me, but you're
wrong to blame yourself. You're not ugly inside, you're
not evil. And you're not your mother."
Catherine looked at Jessica, blank-faced. After blinking
several times, she said, "Every woman is her own mother,"
and turned away.
Suddenly unable to be in the presence of Catherine any
longer, Jill got up and walked outside. Ignoring Tanya's
startled, "What's wrong?" she joined the other passengers
on the far side of the concourse. Together, they listened
to that low rattling, beehive sound and said nothing.
"So what do we do?" Jill finally asked.
"I don't know," Solomon said. He seemed to have wilted
inside his brown cotton shirt. He stood slumped-
shouldered and glum.
Feeling a horrible impotence eating away away at her
belly, Jill looked out at the plane; she was struck by
its bold lines and almost cheery glow. The 727 sitting to
her right at the jetway looked as flat as an old poster
by comparison. It only looks good because it's the only
familiar object in sight. It belongs to this world no
more than the eight of us. And it's never going to fly
again.
"How much fuel is left, Frank?" Gregory suddenly asked.
He had become excited. "Maybe we could take off and glide
part of the way back. I saw that once in a movie about a
Canadian jet that had run out of fuel. Maybe with no wind
and all--you said the winds aren't blowing, right?--it
won't take as much fuel going back."
Frank shook his head. "When we landed, I had just over
10,000 pounds. We burned 70,000 pounds getting here. You
do the math."
Everyone again fell silent. Jill watched Elise reach for
her pack of cigarettes and sigh when she realized where
they were. Walking silently back to the restaurant, she
started to pick them up, then snatched back her hand. Her
look of wide-eyed astonishment made Jill's gooseflesh
explode again. She hurried back to the restaurant. The
others followed.
"What is it, Elise?"
The pack of cigarettes was her answer. Where only minutes
before, the edge of the box and the knife-edge of shadow
were perfectly aligned, now they were not. A quarter-inch
gap separated the box from the dark.
"Somebody moved it," Frank said.
Everyone looked around. As a group, they all denied
responsibility. Then they all followed the line of shadow
and light back across the concourse to the windows.
Breaking away, Jill dashed to the first cold-case of
drinks, knowing what she would find. On each of the lower
shelves--the shelves no one had touched--the labels on
the bottles no longer faced perfectly forward.
The next case was the same, and the next one after that.
No one had been even close to these cases.
"Something is happening!" Gregory said excitedly. "Things
are going on!"
Frank and Solomon both shook their heads. "Don't jump to
conclusions," Solomon said. "We don't have enough info
yet."
Suddenly, a clear image filled Jill's mind: a sign she
had passed every day for the last five years on her way
to work. CAUTION, the sign said. ONCOMING TRAFFIC DOES
NOT STOP.
What the hell does that mean?
Getting an idea, Jill said, "I'll be right back," and
hurried out of the restaurant and down the concourse. At
the Hudson News stand, she dashed by the not-so-perfectly
aligned stacks of newspapers and stepped up behind the
counter and grabbed a pack of Marlboro's out of the rack.
She also grabbed a handful of match packs from beside the
register and hurried back to the restaurant. On the way,
she peeled the gold-colored strip from around the
cigarette pack and opened the top. Tanya met her at the
door.
"What do you know?" she said.
Jill stopped and very nearly kissed her on the lips.
Excitement had her giddy. Grabbing Tanya's hand, she
pulled her alongside her into the restraint. "Light me
up," she said, stopping before Solomon.
"Excuse me?"
"Light me up." She withdrew a cigarette from the pack,
put it in her mouth and waved the matches impatiently.
"Okay," Solomon said and struck a match. It lit, but the
flame was low, guttering, unenthusiastic. He applied it
to the tip of Jill's cigarette. Jill inhaled and
immediate started to cough.
"H-here," she said, handing the cigarette to Elise. "Try
it."
Elise reacted as though she'd been offered a dog turd.
"Go on," Jill said, still coughing. "It won't kill you."
Gingerly, Elise took the cigarette and took a puff. She
didn't immediately inhale. Finally doing so, she
grimaced. "Yuck. It tastes like a Carlton, or something.
"
"Blow smoke in my face," Jill said.
"What?"
"Blow smoke in my face!"
Elise did as Jill asked, surrounding her face with smoke.
It wasn't the sharp fragrance of Elise's Marlboro's, Jill
realized, but neither was it odorless. In fact, it
smelled quite good.
CAUTION: ONCOMING TRAFFIC DOES NOT STOP.
"I'd like to know what this proves," Frank said, looking
annoyed.
"Me too," Elise said. She stubbed the once-puffed
Marlboro into an ashtray and then went to stand beside
Gregory. Suddenly Gregory's eyes grew wide.
"Wait a minute!" he said. He turned Elise around, pulled
her to him, and stuck his face into the hollow of her
neck. He breathed in deeply.
"Hey!" Elise trilled. "Have we been introduced?" Then she
giggled helplessly and put her arms around Gregory's
neck. Gregory, a boy whose intense shyness usually
disappeared only in his daydreams, Jill imagined, paid no
notice. He took another deep breath through his nose.
"Wow!" he said, standing up. "You smell great!"
Elise titterered, "You are so strange, Gregory!"
Then Gregory surprised them all--all except Jill--by
letting Elise go and hurrying back out to the windows.
Gregory had sensed it as well.
Blushing a bright red, waving at her face, Elise shared a
knowing look with Jessica before saying: "That is a very
strange boy!"
Taking Tanya's hand, Jill lead her out of the restaurant
and toward the high windows. Halfway across, Flight 74
came into view, reinforcing what she had seen before: the
767 was clean and bright and almost impossibly there. It
seemed to pulsate in it's drab surroundings.
Suddenly Gregory yelled:"Captain Trafano! Solomon!
Captain Trafano, come here right now!"
*
Outside, the noise was louder.
To Jill it was no longer the sound of radio static or of
swarming bees. It now sounded like...
"Like a washing machine with a load of wood chips,"
Gregory offered.
Frank thought it sounded like French fries in the world's
largest deep-fat fryer.
A swarm of ravenous termites, Jill thought, put through a
synthesizer and amplified a thousand times. A horrible
noise. And to her it was definitely noise; sound implied
a mechanical or otherwise man-made origin... this had no
human qualities at all. Again, the hair raised on the
back of her neck.
The four of them moved away from the door held open by
the fire extinguisher and onto the concrete apron,
listening to the sound of what Catherine Montes called
the langoliers.
"How much closer is it?" Frank asked the group.
Solomon said, "Can't tell. It sounds closer, but of
course we were inside."
"Come on," Gregory said impatiently. "How do we get back
into the plane? Through the nose wheel again?"
"Won't be necessary," Frank said, pointing. A rolling
stairway marked with the American Airlines logo stood on
the far side of Gate 12. They walked toward it, their
shoes making noticeably louder thuds on the concrete.
"You know this might not pan out, Gregory; Jill?" Solomon
warned.
"I know, but--"
"I just don't want you to be too disappointed if it
doesn't pan out."
"Don't worry," Frank said gruffly. "I'll be disappointed
enough for the lot of us. But the idea should work. It
does makes sense."
Solomon said, "There may be factors here we know nothing
about. Murphy's Law, remember."
"I remember," Gregory said. "I've lived it every day of
my life."
Reaching the rolling ladder, Frank kicked up the foot-
brake and paused. "I don't feel good about leaving
Catherine alone with the girls."
"They'll be okay," Frank said, casting a glance at Jill.
"As long as no one releases her hands. I checked the
bindings before we left."
"Even so," Solomon said. He looked up at the tall
concourse windows where Elise and Jessica stood, looking
back. Tanya was with Catherine.
Taking hold of the grip jutting from the left railing,
while Frank laid hold of the one on the right, Gregory
said, "I hope it still rolls."
"Only one way to find out," Solomon answered. "Push!"
Slowly, the stairway began to roll. The two men trundled
it across the apron toward the 767 with Solomon and Jill
walking behind. One of the wheels squeaked rhythmically.
The only other sound was the constant crunch-rattle-
crunch from somewhere over the eastern horizon.
"Look at it," Gregory said as they neared the 767. "Just
look at it, will you. Can't you see how much more there
it is than anything else?"
Yes, Jill thought. Like a ten-carat diamond dropped in
the dust.
They rolled the stairway to a stop against the side of
the airplane. The placement wasn't perfect, but close
enough.
"After you, mon Capitan," Solomon said.
Frank scrambled up the ladder. At the top, he withdrew
his keys and fit one into a small cover plate beside the
hatch. Pulling it open, he punched numbers into a keypad
and a one foot square door below the cover plate popped
open. He pulled down a yellow and black handle inside and
the hatch made a thunking sound and then opened outward.
Frank maneuvered it out and against the aircraft's side.
Turning, he gave a big wide grin and said: "What are you
waiting for? Christmas?"
*
Inside the Mile High Restaurant, Tanya baby-sat Catherine
while Elise and Jessica stood lined up at the concourse
windows, looking out. Catherine seemed barely able to
keep her eyes open; Tanya felt exhausted too. The very
stillness of the place seemed to bleed energy away .
Rousing herself, she got up from her chair and walked to
the restaurant's entrance. "What are they doing?" she
called across in a hushed voice.
"They've put a stairway up to the door," Jessica called
back. "And now they're going up." She looked at Elise.
"You're sure you don't know what they're up to?"
Elise shook her head. "All I know is that Gregory started
raving about the plane being more there, and the same
about my perfume." She paused, smiling, "I'd like to
think it was this mad sexual attraction I have with men,
but I don't think so." Her grin widened. "At least, not
yet."
Elise and Jessica shared a giggle.
*
"All right, Ace," Frank said. "On with the show."
Gregory's hands shook as he set the four elements of his
experiment out on the shelf in First Class and arranged
them neatly.
Jill and the others watched closely as Gregory fingered a
book of Marlboro-embossed matches, a bottle of Heineken,
a can of diet-Coke (for Jill, if she ever dared try it),
and another plain turkey sandwich from the restaurant
cold-case. The sandwich remained sealed in its plastic
tray.
"Okay," Gregory said, taking a deep breath. "Let's see
how this goes."
*
Tanya was growing impatient. "What's happening now?" she
asked.
"We don't know," Jessica replied. "They went inside the
plane and they're still there."
Elise had coaxed a flame from another of the restaurant's
book of matches and was lighting a cigarette. When she
removed the flame from the tip, Tanya saw that her hands
shook.
Tanya gazed at the two for several seconds. "Is
everything all right?"
"Everything's fine," Elise said, fingering her tongue.
She flicked away a shred of tobacco. "They just haven't
come out yet." Her voice was calm enough, but her
expression implied something akin to dread.
Tanya stared at the two for several more seconds, then
shrugged.
"It's the sky," Elise abruptly said. "Doesn't it look
different to you?"
Jessica looked upwards through the top of the glass.
"Clouds," she said, sounding somewhat awed. "I see
clouds." There had been no clouds before.
Looking indecisively back into the restaurant, Tanya
crept halfway across the concourse. "I keep thinking this
place can't get any weirder," she said, crouching to look
up through the windows. "And then something new pops up.
Gregory was right. This place is coming alive."
Jessica suddenly said: "How is Catherine?"
Tanya laughed without humor. She looked back at the
entrance. "Asleep, if you can believe that."
"Are you sure?" Elise asked.
"I'm not sure about anything," Tanya sighed. "Concerning
this place."
*
Catherine Montes, of course, was not asleep. People who
fell asleep at moments like this deserved to meet the
langoliers. And she had no intention of meeting the
langoliers
"Oh, no," she whispered to the echoless room. "No
langoliers for this girl."
She had watched Tanya carefully through narrowly slit
eyes, willing her to go away. All the way to the windows,
preferably, but at least to the restaurant door. She
gladly accepted halfway across the concourse floor.
Beginning to work her wrists up and down against the
tight figure-eight of cloth that bound them, she watched
the whore. Although she tried to stop it, a devilish grin
spread across her lips.
"I've been tied up better than this," she whispered. "By
better boy scouts than you, Frank." She just couldn't
remember wanting out of her bindings quite this badly
before.
Moving her wrists in short, purposeful strokes, carefully
watching the whore's back, Catherine made ready to cease
her movements the instant the whore--or any of the three-
-showed signs of turning around. She willed them not to
turn around.
The knot loosened. Now Catherine began to work her wrists
from side to side, ignoring both the presence of her
mother, who stood silently by with her critical eye, and
the sound of the approaching langoliers. She intended to
be out of here and on her way to David Twomy before they
arrived. After David Twomy she'd be safe. After David
Twomy, the langoliers would know she meant business.
After David Twomy, she really didn't care what happened
at all.
But God help anyone--man, woman, or child--who got in her
way.
*
Gregory picked up the book of matches. "Okay," he said.
"Here goes."
Tearing a match from the pack, he struck it against the
back. The match sparked, but did not light.
"Shit!" he exclaimed, shaking his hand. He sucked at his
right index finger.
"Try it again," Frank said.
Gregory tore another match free from the book, offered
them a smile, and struck it against the back.
The match flared and struggled to life. It burned half-
way down the paper stick and died.
He tried it again, with the same results. But just as the
flame began to licker and die, it regained its strength,
taking on the familiar shape of a teardrop. Blue at its
base, yellow at its tip, the flame merrily consumed the
paper stick.
Gregory broke into a wide grin. "You see?" he said. Then:
"Yeouch!" as the flame caught his fingertips.
Both Frank and Solomon laughed.
Shaking the match out, Gregory dropped it and pulled out
another. This one blazed up on the very first try,
fizzing loudly. He bent back the cover of the matchbook
and touched the flame to the remaining matches and they
all flared up with an even louder fsss! It took two puffs
to blow them out. "Not so slow-catching now?" he said.
"The present is with us," Solomon said excitedly. "We
brought it with us through the hole!"
To Jill, everything seemed possible again. She felt a
wild, almost unrestrainable urge to pull Gregory into her
arms and kiss him on the mouth. She felt her face get
red.
"The beer!" Solomon said. "Try the beer!"
Gregory grabbed the bottle of Heineken and spun off the
the cap while Jill searched for an unbroken glass amidst
the clutter of the drinks trolley.
"Where's the vapor?" Frank asked.
"What?"
"The smoke, the vapor you get when you open a bottle."
Gregory furrowed his brow, then sniffed the bottle.
"Smell," he said, holding the bottle out for Frank. Frank
did, and began to grin. "Maybe it only does that when the
beer is cold," he said. "It sure smells good."
Jill held out the glass at an angle, and Gregory poured
golden liquid down the side. As the glass filled, Jill
tipped it upright.
Everyone lost their smiles.
The beer was flat. The beer was absolutely, totally flat.
Lacking even a hint of carbonation, the yellow liquid sat
in the tumbler like a urine sample awaiting a test.
*
"It's not just clouding up," Jessica said, looking up at
the sky and then out toward the horizon, where buildings
and trees shared equal footing. "It's beginning to haze
up pretty good, too."
Where only an hour before, the demarcation between sky
and land had been unbelievably sharp, the air now held a
noticeable touch of smog.
Jessica looked around, worry plainly visible in her eyes.
"I don't know whether to be scared or glad."
Tanya looked at the sleeping--or not sleeping--Catherine
Montes, and edged closer to the windows. She said. "I
don't know which is worse," she said, "being here in the
first place... or watching the place slowly change. And
that noise... "
Jessica shivered. "I just can't help feeling that
somehow, that sound is not part of THE BIG PICTURE, you
know." She blinked very slowly. "I think Solomon was
right."
"About what?" Elise wanted to know.
"About us being contamination. As though that sound's not
associated with this place at all," she said, "but with
us."
Tanya said, "Come on, you two. Don't go jumping to
conclusions. We have no more clue what's going on here,
then we do about the Holy Trinity."
Jessica turned away from the window. "I think we better
check on Catherine," she said. "I'm worried about
Catherine. I don't think she's asleep."
Tanya backed up a step and looked back over her shoulder.
"She hasn't moved," she said. "But maybe you're right."
Elise grinned tightly. "I'd like to leave her here for
the langoliers, what do you think about that?"
Jessica only shook her head. "Don't joke. It isn't
funny."
Tanya said: "Let's just be glad the langoliers are
something made up by a wickedly perverted mind, and not
what's making that noise."
Jessica was again shaking her head. "Maybe they were
made-up monsters once," she said, turning her eyes back
to the tall windows--and to the growing noise, "but not
anymore."
*
The knot Frank had tied securing Catherine's wrists had
finally worked loose. Gritting her teeth, Catherine
pulled her left hand free and got quickly to her feet. A
bolt of pain shot right through her head and for a moment
she swayed. Black dots swarmed in packs around her field
of vision; they slowly cleared away.
Was she suffering from the punch? Had the damned boy hit
her hard enough to cause a concussion?
Fucking brat, Catherine thought. Fucking brat and his
scuzz-ball girlfriend.
Rage, bright, livid and unrelenting shot through her head
and made Catherine stumble sideways on her feet, jarring
against the table one over. She cursed at the scraping
sound of the chairs. Then her rage was gone, replaced by
a cold resolve. She would show them, she thought. Mess
with Catherine Montes...
Stepping slowly out of the line of sight from the
windows, Catherine headed for the entrance. The crunch-
rattle-crunch sound of the langoliers was louder now,
either because her ears were more attuned, or because
they were closer. Though she hoped for the former, it was
the latter Catherine feared. She stopped when two shadows
over by the windows headed her way. A third shadow,
obviously that of the whore, waited halfway across the
floor. She back-pedaled toward the deli counter in the
rear.
The two silhouettes grew closer to the third and
Catherine backed away faster. She couldn't let them raise
the alarm. She had to get free.
Reaching the stainless steel counter, Catherine stole
around it, never taking her eyes from the approaching
shadows. There were bins of eating utensils set into a
counter to her right, but it was plastic stuff (did she
just see some of the packages shift?) totally worthless
as weapons. Then she saw something that made her eyeballs
ache: lying on the counter next to the grill was a wood-
handled butcher knife with a six inch blade. Grabbing it,
she crouched behind the cash register to watch them
approach. She watched the pony-tailed blonde with a
particular concern. The girl knew too much. About
Catherine, about the langoliers... about David Twomy?
Her eyes drawn down to slits, teeth bared in a primitive
snarl, Catherine waited behind the counter.
The blonde bitch had to be dealt with.
The blonde bitch had to be dealt with now.
*
Frank looked from Solomon to Gregory to Jill. "Okay," he
said. "The matches work but the Heineken doesn't?" He
took the glass from Jill and held it up for a closer
inspection. "What the hell does that mean?"
All at once, an eruption of bubbles burst from the bottom
of the glass, rising swiftly to the top. They mushroomed
over the rim and spilled down the sides of the glass.
"Whoa!" Frank exclaimed, holding the glass away. Foam
splattered on the carpet.
"That caught up in a hurry!" Gregory said, laughing.
"Once it got going," Solomon observed. "It takes a moment
or two to adjust." He took the glass, blew a hole in the
settling foam, and sipped.. "Excellent," he said,
smacking his lips. "Best brew I ever tasted."
Gregory poured more beer into the glass and this time it
came out foaming; the head over spilled the rim. Frank
took a sniff.
"Sure you want to do that, Captain?" Solomon asked,
grinning. "We have a schedule to keep"
Frank grinned widely. "In cases of time-travel, all rules
are suspended." He tilted the glass, drank two cautious
sips, then handed it back. "You're right, though," he
said with a sigh. "Try the soda, Gregory."
Gregory grabbed the can of diet soda and popped open the
lid. It opened with a reassuring, pop-hisss of
carbonation. He took a cautious drink. Then he poured the
fizzing brown liquid into a second glass offered by Jill
and handed it back.
"Cheers," Jill said, tapping her glass against the
aluminum container. They both took a drink.
When he lowered the can again, tears danced in Gregory's
eyes. "Gentlemen and lady," he said, "the cola is very
good today!"
*
Tanya stopped Jessica and Elise twenty feet from the
entrance. "Oh, shit!" she hissed, looking around.
"Where'd she go?"
The plastic chair formerly occupied by Catherine Montes
was empty.
"I don't know!" Elise whispered in alarm. "I didn't see
her go."
They stood rigid and absolutely quiet. For a moment there
was no sound from the restaurant, then a telltale rasp.
"There," Jessica whispered, pointing at the rear counter.
"She's behind there."
"How do you know that?" Elise asked. "That noise could
have come from anywhere."
"I know," Jessica said. She suddenly stepped forward and
called out: "Catherine? Are you there?"
"Jessica, no!" Tanya hissed. Grabbing for Jessica's arm,
she missed. "Come back here, girl!"
Jessica took no notice. Walking toward the counter, hands
out in the universal sign of welcome, she went from light
into shadow.
"Catherine? Come out, okay? It's all right that you're
here. No one is going to hurt you. We just want to get
everyone out of here safe and--"
A sound arose from behind the counter, high and keening
and wild. It was a word, or something akin to a word, but
with no sanity in it at all.
"Youuuuuuuuuuu- "
Catherine arose with the knife upraised, her eyes
blazing, suddenly understanding that it was she that was
to blame for all of this, she that kept her away from her
appointment in D.C., she that had allowed David Twomy to
post those filthy pictures of her on the net.
"Youuuuuuuuuuu-fuckiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing-
biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!"
Tanya shoved Elise sideways, knocking her to the floor,
leaping forward with desperate speed. She was fast, but
not fast enough. Catherine Montes bore down on Jessica
with the knife raised high, and Jessica, too stunned to
move, could only stand there and watch. She made no
effort to flee.
"Catherine! No!" Tanya screamed as Catherine buried the
butcher knife up to the hilt into Jessica's chest and
then collided with Tanya full tilt, bowling her over.
Tanya came to rest sitting on her calves, listening to
the still-shrieking Catherine Montes run away down the
concourse. "Jessica," she whispered.
Jessica stood where she was, hands groping her chest,
fingers locating the stub of blade jutting from her
shirt. The wooden handle--which Catherine even now
clutched in her hand as she ran screaming down the
escalator steps--had broken off. Jessica's fingers
fluttered over the jagged metal edge, exploring the
profile as she sank slowly, gracefully, to her knees.
Tanya caught her as she settled to the floor, cradling
her head as she had done with Jill before, three times
that very day.
Chapter 12
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
11:05 A.M. PDT (2:05 P.M. EDT)
Aboard Flight 74
Dulles International Airport,
Washington, D.C.
Gregory, Frank, Solomon, and Jill passed the turkey
sandwich around. They each had two good bites and then
the sandwich was gone... but while it lasted, Jill
thought she had never tasted anything so good in her
life. Her belly awakened and immediately began clamoring
for more.
"I think our friends inside will like this part best,"
Solomon said, swallowing his second bite. He looked at
Gregory. "Why didn't you bring more, Gregory?"
Gregory laughed happily. "I was afraid of being wrong and
didn't want more of the stuff around reminding me of how
stupid I was. When I saw what was happening with the
matches and the shadows and all, it just sort of fit. If
things were starting to catch up here, as I thought, then
maybe they'd catch up a whole lot faster on the plane.
After all, the plane is a part of the world being caught
up to." He paused to look at the bubbling glass of beer.
"Fill this plane up with gas, and I really think we can
make it back to the rip."
Solomon said purposefully, "I think that's correct and I
also think we should start the process right now. Those
sounds coming from the east worry me to death, but
there's something that worries me even more. This
airplane is part of a world not yet in existence here. I
think that world is barreling along like a relay runner
on it's very last leg, ready to hand off. This one is
preparing to meet it. When that hand-off occurs, I don't
think we should be around to see it."
"Why?" Gregory asked. "Wouldn't we just blend in?"
"I don't think so," Solomon said. "I think the hand over
only works one way."
One way, Jill thought suddenly. Oncoming traffic does not
stop.
Then a jarring realization hit her. "My God!" she said,
touching her suddenly numb lips. "It was today's date."
Solomon blinked in confusion. "Excuse me?"
"The Washington Post. It was dated today." She told them
of the neatly stacked offerings of papers.
"My God," Solomon concurred. "If that's true... "
Gregory had not yet caught on. "Is that important?"
Solomon gave him an incredulous stare. "Important? Of
course it's important! It means the transitions today! At
twelve o'clock noon! We may have only minutes--hours at
most--before the past arrives!"
Gregory understood now. "We either get back to our side,"
he said, unhappily. "Or we get bowled over when it does."
Nodding, Solomon looked nervously out one of the fuselage
windows. "If the noise doesn't mow us down first," he
muttered.
"Maybe the noise is the transition," Gregory suggested.
His tone said he believed this not at all. And neither
did Jill. She was in complete agreement with Jessica
about the noise: It was not of this world.
"How do we start, Frank?" Solomon asked.
Frank paused, as though running the process over in his
mind. Jill knew it would be awkward, working with men and
women whose only experience with aircraft probably began
and ended with boarding the aircraft... but she thought
it could be done.
"We start by turning on the engines and taxiing as close
to that L-1011 as we can get," he said, pointing out a
starboard-side window to the red, white and blue United
Airlines jet parked out near the runway. "Both the 767
and L-1011 are equipped with fueling ports beneath their
wings. Our aircraft has ports on both sides, but the L-
1011 only has them under the right. That's okay though,
because the 1011's pointed west along the apron and we'll
be rolling east. I can lay our wing directly over the
1011's right. When we get there, I'll kill the starboard
engine and leave the port-side engine running. This 767
is equipped with wet-wing tanks--we can fuel ourselves.
The APU can still generate enough power to fill us up,
even if its on its own."
"Why don't we just bring that fuel tanker over here?
Gregory asked. "Like we did the ramp?" He pointed out the
port-side windows to a large red truck backed neatly
against the concourse wall. It was emblazoned on the
sides with: Jet-A Fuel. Highly Inflammable. Keep Flame
Away. Then he answered his own question. "It's probably
too heavy, huh."
"A lot too heavy," Frank agreed. "Another thing we're
going to do is segregate all the existing fuel into the
center tank. Right now it's spread out evenly between the
wings for weight distribution. But I don't think we want
to mix the two of them together right away."
"You're thinking about the catch-up time," Gregory said.
"Exactly. It may work just as fast with volatile fuel,
but then again, it might not."
Just then, a spiraling, frenzied wail cut across the low
rattling background noise like an air-raid siren. It was
followed by bounding footfalls on the ladder. As Jill
turned in that direction, Elise Gallo, pallid, wide-eyed
and out of breath burst into the hatchway.
"Come on!" she yelled. "You've got to come back!" Then
she lost her balance on the top step and began to
ferociously windmill her arms. For a moment Jill was sure
she would tumble down the steps, then Gregory sprang
forward, grabbed her by the front on her shirt. He yanked
her back in. She tumbled into his arms and knocked both
of them backward.
"Elise! Elise, what is it?" Solomon shouted. His face had
a sickly look.
Elise yelled: "She stabbed her! She stabbed the fucking
girl, and I think she's dying!"
Solomon put his hands on her biceps and shook her gently.
"Who has stabbed whom?" he demanded, very quietly. "Is it
Catherine?"
Elise bobbed her head energetically up and down. "She
stabbed Jessica in the chest!"
"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Frank cried out. He smacked the
counter in frustration. "We should not have left her
alone!"
Solomon compressed his lips to a very thin line. "Bloody
fucking bitch. That's all that we need." Then he raised
his voice as Frank and Gregory both headed for the
ladder. "Stop!" he shouted in a drill sergeant tone that
stopped them both in their tracks. "Stay fucking put!"
Jill, who's father had served two tours in Vietnam and
had retired a full bird-colonel, knew the sound of
unquestionable command.
"Do you know how this happened or where the wretched
bitch is?" Solomon asked Elise.
Elise bobbed her head up and down again, then she shook
it. "She took off running down the concourse," she said,
her eyes cutting to Gregory and then back to Solomon
again, as though afraid of loosing his respect. "We
didn't see where she went. I came running as soon as --"
"Never mind!" Solomon snapped. He glanced briefly over at
Frank, then at Jill; his eyes were black with rage. "The
fools left her alone. I just know they did. Well, the
bitch has had her last hurrah on my watch."
He looked back to Elise, whose mouth was open; she
breathed in labored, noisy whoops of breath. Tears
brimmed in her eyes.
"Is she alive, Elise?"
Elise bobbed her head. "She was," she said. Her tone
indicated she might not think so now. Moving up beside
her, Gregory slipped an arm around her shoulders and she
moved in close against his side. Solomon released her
biceps. He turned to Frank.
"I'm going back to the terminal," he said. "You start the
engines but keep the aircraft where it is. If the girl is
alive, we'll need to bring her up the stairs. Elise, you
man the bottom of the stairs. Keep an eye out for
Catherine Montes." He handed her the yellow-handled
screwdriver. "Use this if you have no other choice,
otherwise, get the hell up the stairs and shut the hatch.
Do not let her on board the plane. Gregory and Jill, you
come with me."
Then he said something which chilled Jill to the bone.
"If Catherine lives, I plan to leave her to her
langoliers."
*
Jessica was still alive and still conscious. Tanya had
found a linen napkin and was using it to wipe away the
sweat on the young girl's brow. Jessica's eyes, deep blue
and very scared, looked up into Tanya's.
"I'm sorry, " Tanya said for the twentieth time. "I never
should have left her alone."
Jessica did not speak. Her breath wheezed in and out.
There was very little blood on her shirt, at least so
far; a jagged-edged stain the size of a baseball spread
out around the base of the knife.
"You're going to be all right," Tanya said, but her eyes
were drawn relentlessly back to the stub of metal.
"You... must... out of here," Jessica struggled to say. A
thin, ghastly bubble of blood formed in one corner of her
mouth and burst. Blood trickled down her cheek.
"Don't try to talk," Tanya said, brushing back damp locks
of hair from Jessica's forehead.
"You have to get out of here now," Jessica insisted. Her
voice was a gaspy whisper. "And you shouldn't blame
Catherine. She's... she's over the edge."
Tanya looked around malevolently. "I'll over-the-edge
her," she said. "I'll make her wish she'd died an
abortion."
Solomon came dashing into the restaurant, followed by
Gregory and Jill. He knelt beside Jessica and took her
hand. He exchanged looks with Tanya, then fixed his gaze
on the stub of knife.
"You were right, Jess," he said, keeping his voice low
and controlled. "This place is no place for humans." He
smiled gently. "We'll get you fixed up and out of here
before you can say boo. Okay?"
Jessica tried to smile. "Boo," she whispered. More blood
seeped out of her mouth and Jill's stomach did a slow,
lazy roll.
While Solomon stroked her hand, Tanya said to Jessica:
"I'm going to turn you up slightly on your side, Jess. It
may hurt."
"Okay," Jessica whispered.
Leaning far over Jessica's chest, Tanya gently lifted up
her right shoulder. "Hurt?"
Jessica grimaced. "Yes," she croaked. "Hurts to...
breathe. " Thin streamers of blood ran from either side
of her mouth and pooled at the lobes of her ears.
She nodded sympathetically and then looked across the
concourse to the tall bank of windows, where the
unmistakable whine of a jet engine began to build.
Solomon, Jill and Gregory followed her gaze.
"Here that?" Solomon said. "That's our ticket out of this
place."
Jessica coughed up blood.
Looking almost panicked, Tanya quickly, but gently
advised: "Don't do that if you can help it, hon. I know
it must hurt, but you'll do yourself worse until we get
that blade out of you. Do you understand?"
Jessica moved her head. She didn't speak. Jill sensed
that speaking would make her cough. Tanya said as much.
"For the next couple minutes, I want you only to nod or
shake your head. Don't talk. Talking will make you want
to cough. Okay?"
"Don't... you... Catherine," Jessica stubbornly
whispered. Her eyes, locked on Tanya's, conveyed great
urgency.
Tanya shook her head. "Leave her to us. We'll take care
of her, I promise."
Jessica grit her teeth. Concentrating hard, she got out:
"Don't... hurt... don't... " before Solomon bent down and
kissed her on the forehead. "No more, Jess. Just lie
still and let us take care of things, okay?"
Jessica looked pleadingly at Jill.
"She's trying to tell you something impor--" Jill got out
before Solomon cut her off with a swipe of his hand.
To Tanya, he said: "You tried to remove the knife?"
"No." Tanya swallowed hard. Her breathing was ragged. "I
didn't want to take the chance. But it has to come out,
Solomon. Now." Both her tone and the look in her eyes
left no doubt of the urgency.
Tanya looked around at Gregory and Jill. "We need
something to act as bandages, something cotton;
tablecloths, clean white uniforms, folded up towels. We
also need alcohol if you can find it."
Good luck, Jill thought.
"I also need to know if either of you are going to
faint," she said, looking pointedly at Jill.
Jill said, "I'm fine. Don't worry about me."
Gregory gulped, and slowly bobbed his head. "I won't let
you down either, Tanya."
"Good," Tanya said. "Now get moving. And for Christ's
sake, don't split up!"
No one had to ask what she meant by that.
Turning back to the pasty-faced and desperately wheezing
girl, Tanya said: "Don't worry, Jess. We'll get that
thing out of you in just a second and you'll begin to
feel better." To Solomon, she said, "Run back down to the
airplane and get the pliers out of the tool kit. No!
Bring the entire thing! There may be something in there
we can use."
Solomon jumped to his feet.
"And for Christ's sake, Solomon--keep an eye out for
Catherine!"
"Don't you worry!" he said, spinning on his heel. "Don't
you worry about that at all!" His look was absolutely
murderous.
Flying out the restaurant door and down the concourse at
full tilt, he passed Jill and Gregory outside the
Gridiron Bar, shouting that he'd be right back. Jill
watched after him, thinking: Even in a place and a
situation as fucked up as this, good people always show
their colors. She almost teared up. Then she thought
about Tanya and the kiss...
What's the matter with you? Jessica's in there probably
dying, and you're wondering what being in bed with her is
like? Stop it!
Inside the restaurant, Jessica stared up into Tanya's
blue eyes and whispered, "They're closer now. You
really... " She coughed again and a large bubble of blood
appeared between her lips and popped, splattering her
cheeks. Tanya shuddered, but did not look away.
"... really need to hurry," Jessica finished.
Tanya's kindly smile did not falter. "I know," she
whispered back. "And we will."
*
On the lower level, Catherine Montes stood panting before
the tall, wide windows. She stared distractedly at the
767, and the small form of Elise Gallo standing watch
outside. The crunch-rattle-crunch of the langoliers
vibrated the glass. It was louder here, so much louder...
They're almost back, her mother's voice whispered.
They're almost back to get you!
"No!" she said aloud. "There's still time!"
Not if you don't hurry.
Breaking her trance, Catherine spun about and headed
determinedly across the Airport Services area. She still
had the knife handle in her hand, knew that something
terrible had occurred upstairs, but in her present state
of mind was not sure exactly what--or to whom.
Her mother offered clarification. You skewered the little
bitch.
"I did, didn't I?" Catherine said with heartfelt, if
somewhat uncertain anger.
Thought she could figure you out, did she? Won't have her
to worry about anymore, poisoning the others against you.
Catherine nodded in emphatic agreement. "I put her right
in her place. The impertinent little bitch."
She suddenly slowed. There was a small, windowless door
to her left leading outside--Customs Personnel Only, a
sign upon it read in bold black letters--and for a moment
she started in that direction. Then she stopped. So what
if there was a road out there, and that road led
eventually to Washington, D.C... this fuck-up was not her
own. Why should she have to hoof it into town, twenty-
some miles, when the others had brought her here. Damned
if they wouldn't take responsibility for their actions!
Make them stop SCAMPERING AROUND and GET WITH THE
PROGRAM! her mother commanded.
Her mind seized on this idea the way a shark seizes on a
swimmer's leg. If she could get to Washington, D.C., take
care of her business with David Twomy, this whole fuck-up
would be... would be . .
"Forgiven," she muttered.
At the words, a razor edge of rational thought sliced
through the darkness inside her head, giving birth to a
sudden and crystal clear realization: If she were really
here alone--she and the worthless others--then what
difference did a few pictures floating around cyberspace
make? Sure, some big bull-nigger had his pecker up her
ass, dog-fucking her with every inch of the thing as
another bull-nigger fucked her mouth. So what? No one
even knew they were here. And with no electricity to
power up a computer, no one ever would.
The others, though... they wanted to return to the
previous world, wanted to set things back. Wanted to undo
the work the langoliers had worked so hard to attain.
With a single, styptic blink, Catherine's dark eyes
narrowed and went from glassed-over to glassed-in.
"That's it then," she whispered softly. "We have to
stay."
Stay... and let the langoliers finish the job they had
started.
Catherine turned her narrowed eyes to the dead escalator
leading upstairs. They would be hunting her soon--the
son-of-a-bitch Frank undoubtedly leading the pack--and
being found here as exposed as her spread-assed cunt in
those cyberspace shots...
I have to hide, I have to plan my attack.
Turning away from the window, she heard the whine of the
jet engines winding up outside, but after a brief glance
back at the aircraft, continued on. Frank was aboard the
767, of course, she should have figured that. But she
also understood that Frank couldn't go anywhere until the
767 had refueled. And refueling would take time. She
needn't worry about them leaving just yet.
Heading resolutely toward the Airport Security office,
Catherine stopped when she heard the sound of running
feet and an indistinct shout. She ducked instead through
the door marked, AIRPORT SERVICES, and closed it
carefully behind her.
Total darkness swallowed her up. Unh-uh, Catherine
thought. That won't do. Won't do at all. In the dark,
things came out of the corners and out from under the
bed--desk, in this case--to swallow you up. Things a lot
worse than the dark. Carefully, she opened the door back
open a crack and thought: Better. At least she could see.
And though the crunch-rattle-crunch of the langoliers was
still oppressively loud, it was less distinct.
Not waiting for her eyes to adjust, she felt her way
slowly forward, hands outstretched, feet testing the
unseen floor. Her left thigh came into contact with the
edge of the desk and she reached forward and down and let
her hands flutter over the items sitting atop it. She
felt a neatly stacked pile of paper, an IN/OUT basket,
the edge of a blotter, and a caddy filled with paper-
clips, rubber bands, pencils and pens. She worked her way
around the desk, found the chair, and rolled it silently
out. Then she sat down.
"Better," she muttered. Being behind the desk made her
feel like a person again, someone with purpose. Something
the langoliers would understand.
Fumbling open the center drawer, she felt inside for
something specific, something instinct told her was
there. Her hand came upon it almost immediately: the
slender, cold-steel handle of a letter-opener. She held
it aloft. She smiled. Not as good as a six-inch steak
knife, perhaps, but the handle wouldn't break off in her
hand.
She closed the drawer, and put the letter opener on the
desk by her right hand. Then she just sat there a moment,
feeling the distinct whisk-thud of her heartbeat and the
even more distinct resonance of the approaching
langoliers. Then she pushed back in the chair, placed her
heels of the corners of the desk, raised her dress and
slid her hand inside her panties.
That's it, Cathy-wathy, her mother said. You just sit
here in the dark, relaxing your mind. The others will
come to you when it's time, and when they do, everything
will be crystal clear.
"That's right," Catherine said. Her fingers splayed the
moist petals of her labia and snuck inside--she
shuddered. "I'll just wait right here. They'll come when
I'm ready." She tittered at her unexpected pun.
Just relax, her mother said. "Think of water... cool,
cool water."
"Water. Cool, cool water,"' Catherine repeated. Calm
filled her mind and she let her legs drop fully apart.
She began to sing under her breath in a tuneless, throaty
whisper.
"Water... water... cool, cool water... "
The tip of her middle finger gently but determinedly
massaged the bundle of nerve endings known as the
Graftenberg spot (did it really exist? Catherine didn't
know for sure, but thought it probably did), as she
continued to sing the old Roy Rogers ballad that her
mother had taught her so long ago.
"Water... water... cool, cool water... "
Chapter 13
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
12:00 P.M. PDT (3:00 P.M. EDT)
Concourse Level, Mid-field Concourse
Dulles International Airport,
Washington, D.C.
"Listen carefully," Tanya said. "We have to take her
aboard the plane on something stiff, a carry-board or a
stretcher if we can find one. There's none aboard the
plane, but there's probably one here. Go look, okay?"
Jill and Gregory exchanged looks. They had returned only
moments before with half a dozen folded white tablecloths
from the Gridiron Bar.
"We should wait for Solomon," Gregory said, uncertainly.
"He'd know where--"
"Solomon isn't here," Tanya cut in. "You'll just have to
manage on your own."
Jill and Gregory both frowned... then Jill thought of a
sign she had seen at the escalators leading downstairs.
"Airport Services?" she asked. "Does that sound right?"
"It certainly does," Tanya said. "Where did you see
that?"
Jill explained. As she finished, Solomon came running
back into the restaurant, huffing and puffing; his face
was bright red. He looked at each of the others in turn,
then down at the bleeding Jessica. He handed the tool kit
to Tanya.
"See anyone?" Tanya asked.
Solomon shook his head.
"All right," she said. "This is what we're going to do.
Jill and Gregory will go find a stretcher. Solomon, you
check the grill behind the counter, which is where I
suspect Catherine got her knife. Get whatever is there,
the biggest thing you can find."
Solomon went behind the counter without a word. He
returned with a pair of butcher knifes and a long,
wooden-handled spatula. The spatula handle was lightly
stained with grease.
Tanya continued: "You probably won't see Catherine," she
said to Gregory and Jill. "My guess is she left out of
here unarmed, in a panic, and ran as far away as
possible. Still, if you do see her, I want you to stay
clear. Do not bother her unless she bothers you first."
She indicated for Solomon to give Jill and Gregory the
two knives. "Keep your priorities straight, you two. Your
job is to bring back a stretcher, not to recapture
Catherine or subdue her. As far as I'm concerned, she's
cooked her own goose."
Jill took one of the knives, but Gregory shook his head.
He went behind the counter, peered around, then went back
to the supply closet next to the bathroom. He returned
with a five foot long, wooden mop handle. Holding it out
straight before him, he dipped low on one foot and swung
the handle in a series of rhythmic, whooshing arcs. Then
he stood back erect.
"When I was a kid," he said, grinning, "me and my friend
Tommy used to play Star Wars a lot. I was Darth Vader and
he was Obi-Wan Kenobi." His grin turned laconic. "I broke
his arm once and my mother bought me a plastic light-
saber afterwards. Not as dangerous," he said, hefting the
wooden handle in his hand, "but not so much fun, either."
Jill looked dubiously at Gregory's makeshift light-saber,
then at the knife in her hand. If push came to shove,
she'd rather just be smart and run away.
Tanya said: "Good enough. Go find that stretcher and
bring it back. If you don't find anything in say, fifteen
minutes--make that ten--just come back and we'll carry
her out by hand."
"You can't do that!" Jill cried softly. "If there's
internal bleeding--"
"There's internal bleeding already! And ten minutes is
all we can spare."
Jill opened her mouth to answer, but Jessica's husky
whisper cut her off. "She's... right. Can't... wait.
Go... now."
Jill gripped the handle of the knife tightly in her hand
and said: "Come on, Gregory, let's go." They left the
restaurant together and walked in silence down the
concourse to the bank of escalators. As they started
down, Gregory tucked the mop handle beneath his right
armpit and gave Jill a tight-lipped grin.
"It'll be okay," she assured him. But, of course, it
would not.
*
Turning her attention back to the girl on the floor,
Tanya asked: "How are you, Jess?"
"Hurts bad," Jessica said faintly.
"Yes, of course it does," Tanya said. She swallowed
loudly, and sweat stood out on her brow. She turned to
Solomon. "Down here beside me."
Solomon knelt down beside her and took Jessica's hand.
Tanya said: "I'm afraid what I'm about to do is going to
make it hurt worse, Jess. For a few seconds, at least.
But the blade is in your lung, and it's got to come out.
You understand that, right?"
Jessica's frightened eyes looked up at her. "Scared," she
said, nodding weakly.
"So am I, Jess. So am I." She turned to Solomon. "Ready?"
"Yes," he said, removing a stubby pair of pliers from the
kit of tools.
"Good." She turned back to Jessica. "This won't take
long, hon, I promise. I want you to lie as still as you
can, and try not to cough. That's very important. Try not
to cough."
"I'll try."
Tanya took the pliers from Solomon's hand and held them
out of sight. "There may be a moment or two when you feel
that you can't breathe. It will probably be painful. But
I promise you, the pain will be less afterwards, and it
won't be as painful to breathe. Okay? And remember, Jess,
you mustn't cough. You mustn't cough at all."
Jessica made a reply neither of them could understand.
"I'm going to grasp the stub of the knife and draw it
out," she said to Solomon. "Let's pray it's not caught in
her ribs. The moment it's out, I'll draw back, giving you
clear access to her chest. Place two of the pads over the
wound and press hard. Press very hard. Don't worry about
hurting her. She's got a perforated lung, and if air gets
into her chest cavity, it could collapse. That's what
we've got to worry about. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Then take off your belt."
When Solomon had removed it, and handed over the belt,
Tanya continued: "After you've placed the pad, I'm going
to lift her up. You have to keep on the pressure. I'll
slip the other pad beneath her and tie the compresses in
place with your belt." She glanced at Solomon's
noticeably lighter complexion. "Are you all right?"
Solomon nodded. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine to me."
Solomon turned his dark eyes upon her. "I'm fine," he
repeated.
They stared at each other until Jessica muttered
something undecipherable.
"All right," Tanya said. She drew a deep breath and then
let it out slowly. "Jesus help us."
Bringing up the pliers and clamping them carefully onto
the stub of knife, she set her teeth and suddenly pulled.
Jessica shrieked and a great gout of blood spewed from
her mouth onto Tanya's neck and left cheek. She recoiled
minutely but continued withdrawing the knife. Solomon,
however, emitted a gurgling, half-strangled cry and
reared back.
"No!" Tanya spat without looking around. "Don't you dare!
Don't you fucking dare!"
Solomon leaned forward again, gagging and shuddering. The
blade, a red-streaked wedge of silver six inches long,
emerged from Jessica's chest and hung in the air.
Jessica's chest heaved and there was a high, unearthly
whistling as the wound sucked air.
"Now!" Tanya cried. "Press down! Press as hard as you
can."
Solomon leaned forward and pressed the thick compress
against the blood pouring out of Jessica's chest. The
tablecloths grew bright red around the edges.
"Harder!" Tanya yelled, adding her hands to the compress.
"Seal the wound! Seal the fucking wound or she'll die!"
"I can't!" Solomon yelled. "I'll break her ribs if I push
any harder!"
"Fuck her ribs! You have to make a seal!"
Solomon rocked forward and brought his entire weight down
on his hands. Blood seeped slowly between his fingers,
even though the tablecloths were folded thick. Jessica
was no longer awake.
"That's it!" Tanya grunted. "Keep the pressure on."
"There's so much blood!" Solomon moaned. "Will she
drown?"
"Not if you keep the pressure on. Ready?"
"Christ, I guess so," Solomon croaked.
"Here we go, then." She slipped his hands beneath
Jessica's right shoulder and levered her up.
"It's worse than I thought," she muttered. "Far worse."
She pulled Jessica upward against the pressure Solomon
was putting on, and Jessica uttered a thick, croaking
moan. A gout of half-congealed blood erupted from her
mouth and spattered across the carpet.
The look on Solomon's face said the world was swimming
away and Tanya cried loudly: "Keep the pressure on,
Solomon! Don't let up!"
But Solomon was fading fast.
Suddenly, there came a shriek of pain and surprise from
the level below, followed by a hoarse shout, and then a
loud drilling scream.
This brought Solomon snapping back; through clenched
teeth, he hissed: "We told them to stay the fuck away
from her!"
Tanya looked both alarmed and relieved by the distant
ruckus. Tendons on her neck stood out like steel
supports. "Don't worry about them!" she exclaimed.
"Concentrate on this!"
Applying the second compress to Jessica's back, Tanya
wrapped her chest with Solomon's belt, then cinched it
tight. Jessica groaned again.
"Now that you've found her," Solomon grunted as they lay
Jessica back on the floor, "you have my permission to
royally fuck her up."
There was a thud and a shout from downstairs, followed by
a howl of agony. Then a whole series of muffled thuds.
"Jesus Christ!" Solomon said, suddenly rearing back, "I
didn't mean literally!"
Breathing heavily, Tanya said: "How do you know that's
her?"
*
Jill led the way down the escalator, stopping briefly at
the bottom to test the flashlight. Balancing the butcher
knife atop the black escalator grip, she thumbed the
flashlight on. The light was reassuringly bright. "Do you
think she's down here?" she asked.
"I don't know," Gregory said. "Let's hope not." He swung
the mop handle back and forth. "Or hope she is."
"Gregory... "
"Sorry," he said. "Just angry about Jess. Anyway, where's
this Airport Services office?"
Jill spotted the door Catherine Montes had gone through
less than five minutes before. "There," she said.
"Do you think it's unlocked?"
Jill shrugged. "Only one way to find out."
The knife left atop the black rubber grip temporarily
forgotten, they crossed the terminal, Jill still leading
the way with the flashlight in her hand.
*
Catherine heard them coming, but she wasn't worried in
the least. She had taken care of her doubts and her
frustrations... her course was clear. Pressed hard
against the wall beside the door, she clutched the letter
opener in her hand.
"Do you think it's unlocked?" Gregory's voice sounded
from outside.
"Only one way to find out."
You're going to find out something, Catherine Montes
thought. She raised the letter-opener to shoulder height.
The door pushed silently inward and Catherine tensed.
*
Gregory stepped in, blinking at the gloom. Jill moved
into the doorway beside him and swung the flashlight beam
all around. What she saw was a combined office and
storeroom, with a tidily arranged stack of luggage in one
corner and a photocopy machine in another. The back wall
was lined with shelves and the shelves were stacked with
what looked like supplies of various kinds. One shelf
held half a dozen Epson Ink-jet printers, in unopened
boxes.
Jill stepped further into the office, pointing her
flashlight beam against the rear wall. "Gregory, look!"
Beneath a poster showing three radiantly smiling flight
attendants in extremely skimpy dress, was a large white
box with a large red cross. Beneath that was a
collapsible, folded up stretcher about four feet long.
Perfect.
Jill wasn't looking at the poster or the first-aid kit or
the stretcher, however. Her eyes were glued to the desk
in the center of the room. Or rather, the pushed back,
out of place chair behind it.
"Look out!" she shouted. "Gregory, she's in the--"
Catherine Montes stormed out from behind the door and
struck.
*
The sounds from downstairs had ceased. There was only the
crunch-rattle-crunch from outside and the steady,
thrumming hum of the 767's engines. While Tanya brushed
hair off of Jessica's damp forehead, Solomon stood up and
looked out the entrance. His expression was grimly
determined.
"Are you going downstairs?" Tanya asked.
"That seems expedient."
"Be careful," she said. "Please be careful."
Solomon grinned down at her. The grin was entirely
mirthless. He said: "It's my intention to stay very much
alive, don't worry." He reached down and squeezed her
shoulder. "Thank you, Tanya. Thank you so very much."
As he turned away, Jessica's thin white hand groped out
and caught the cuff of his pants. He looked down and saw
that Jessica's eyes were open again.
"Don't... you... " she began, and then choked on blood.
Blood and phlegm flew from her nose in a spray of fine
droplets.
"Jessica," he said, stooping down again. "You mustn't--"
"Don't... you... kill her!" she hissed.
Solomon lost his composure. "For God's sake, why not! She
stabbed you, child!"
Jessica's chest strained against the belt. The
bloodstained tablecloths leaked blood. She managed to say
one thing more before she passed out.
"All... I know," she announced, with painful clarity,
"... is that... we need her." Then her eyes closed again
and she was gone.
*
Catherine buried the letter-opener fist-deep into the
nape of Gregory's neck. Or she would have, had Gregory
not reacted to Jill's scream in time and dodged forward
and sideways at the last moment; instead of suffering a
serious, possibly fatal spinal cord injury, he got the
letter-opener embedded in the hard bone of his right
shoulder blade. Screaming loudly, he dropped the mop
handle onto the floor, kicking it backward toward Jill as
he staggered forward.
Catherine hollered in rage. Leaping forward again, she
grabbed the silvery object sticking out of Gregory's back
and tried to reclaim it. Gregory yowled in pain, clawing
at Catherine's hand as he fell over the desk. His arms
flew out ahead of him, knocking the IN/OUT box to the
floor, and the neatly placed stack of forms. Grabbing the
opener with one hand and planting her other against
Gregory's back, Catherine simultaneously pushed and
pulled; Jill heard the sound of a drumstick being pulled
off a well-done turkey. Then the letter-opener was free.
Without even thinking, Jill grabbed the mop handle off
the floor and advanced on the pair. Just as Catherine
raised the office-dagger high above her head for another
strike, Jill smashed her mercilessly across the back.
Catherine yowled in pain.
"You fucking bitch!" Jill screamed. She began to swing
again but Catherine whirled on her like a human cyclone
knocking both the mop handle and flashlight from her
hands. They fell clattering onto the floor. Staggering
back, she barely deflected a well-aimed jab at her
throat. Then the flashlight went out with a flash,
leaving them in near-total darkness. The door had swung
closed.
Catherine laughed softly in the darkness. Jill stepped
backward and felt a whoosh of air in her face as
Catherine swung the blade through the spot where she had
just been standing. She searched behind herself with both
hands, terrified of backing into a corner. Her fingers
found only empty space, and she backed until her shoulder
hit the door. Then she whirled and flung it open and
scrambled through, the letter-opener deflecting with a
load scrape off the face of the door and catching her
glancingly across the back. She fell to her hands and
knees, scrambling desperately away from the door.
"You are so fucking pitiful," Catherine laughed. She
stood calmly in the doorway, wiping a thin smear of blood
up and down the letter-opener with her fingertip. She
seemed almost mesmerized by the blood.
Jill crab-walked away.
"I'm staying here," Catherine said. "And so are you.
Only, unlike you, I won't have to deal with the
langoliers."
Jill continued crab-walking away. Keep her talking. Keep
her mind off Gregory behind her. "And why is that?" she
asked.
Catherine looked up and grinned. "Because I am not lazy
and worthless." She took a step forward. "I am not a
cowardly piece of cunt trying to escape my punishment
through some ridiculous slight-of-hand." She stopped
playing with the smear of blood and leveled the knife at
Jill. Only it wasn't a knife as Jill had originally
thought, but a plain old stainless steel letter-opener.
Careful! It can kill you just as dead!
Jill got cautiously to her feet, ready to flee. Catherine
circled to her right, the letter-opener raised, a
graceful, light-stepping cat with insane eyes. "I see
you, kitty," she purred. "Kitty, kitty, kitty. Come to
mama."
Jill backed away, keeping her eyes off the Airport
Services door. Gregory was there, mop handle in hand,
pain and fury pinching his face. Jill kept backing toward
the escalators, holding Catherine's attention.
"You belong in a psycho ward, Catherine."
Catherine laughed. "You can do better than that. You
better do better than that." Behind her, Gregory set his
teeth and held the broom handle like a bat. He advanced
on Catherine's back.
"How can you not see what's going on, here?" Jill
demanded. "For God's sake! Open your eyes!"
Catherine kept the letter opener moving continually back
and forth--Jill struggled to keep her eyes off it--and
settled into an anticipatory crouch. Just as she appeared
ready to spring forward at Jill, she spun around and
charged Gregory instead. Gregory hollered and swung
awkwardly at her in self-defense. The mop handle caught
Catherine across the right shoulder and biceps, not hard
enough to stop her lunge, but enough to deflect it. The
letter-opener caught Gregory just above his left pectoral
at an angle sufficient to penetrate the skin but not to
plunge straight through. He shrieked in pain, then
twisted sideways out of Catherine's reach.
"Run, Gregory, run!" Jill cried. At the same time, she
threw herself forward and struck Catherine in the back
with both hands. Catherine staggered forward against the
wall, instantly spinning about to confront her again.
Jill could not believe her quick reactions.
"I going to skewer you like a kabob," Catherine growled.
She moved toward Jill again, weaving and bobbing like a
professional knife-fighter. Her eyes shifted constantly
back and forth between her two quarry, her teeth bared in
a feral leer.
Casting a quick glance behind her, Jill saw she was
backing toward the Information counter. If she retreated
much further, Catherine would have her cornered. To her
left, Gregory had rejoined the fight, but the upper left
side of his shirt was growing dark with blood; the mop
handle shook in his hands. It had to be soon, or one or
the other of them were fucked.
"Jill, here!" Gregory suddenly hollered.
He pitched the mop handle through the air, and Jill,
though caught by surprise, deftly snagged it in one hand.
She brought the makeshift bat back over her shoulder in
best Mark Maguire form, and stood her ground. Catherine
sprang forward.
"You fucking bitch! I'll cut your fucking--"
Jill swung the handle with all her might. It came round
in a perfect fast-ball swing, arcing up on the upswing
toward Catherine's dodging head. Catherine cooperated by
dodging to her left at the last possible moment. The
wooden handle caught her right above the temple with a
hard, toneless thud, stopping her shriek dead in its
tracks. She staggered sideways, the letter opener
dropping from her hand, as blood gushed from a long gash
opened by the handle.
"Now, Jill!" Gregory screamed. "Get her now!"
Jill bounded forward. Catherine's hands were at the left
side of her head, blood from the gash pouring out between
her fingers; a warbling wail like an air raid siren came
out of her mouth. Jill was terrified that she had already
delivered a possibly fatal blow, but was even more
terrified that she hadn't. The mop handle flashed forward
again, catching Catherine across her raised hands. Jill
heard and felt bones snap.
Staggering backward, Catherine put out her hands to stop
the next blow. The pinky and the two fingers beside it on
her left hand were bent horribly crooked, and looking at
them in seeming disbelief, she shrieked in agony as the
mop handle hit them again. Jill shrieked as well. Then
the bat smashed Catherine in the mouth, mauling her lips
and shattering most of her front teeth. There was a sound
like glass crushing underfoot. Catherine sat down hard,
no longer howling, but her ruined mouth agape, blood
pouring down her chin. Glassy-eyed, she looked at her
blood-covered hands, and then up at Jill. She made words
no one could understand.
Lowering the mop handle, Jill muttered, "No more! No
more!" and her stomach lurched; vomit hot as erupting
lava filled her mouth. Then she threw up all over the
lower half of Catherine's dress and staggered backwards.
Dumbfounded, Catherine looked at the steaming porridge in
her lap, then back up at Jill. Then her eyes rolled back
into her head until only the whites showed and she
flopped backwards onto the floor. Her head banged with a
resounding thud. Then she was still.
"Is she dead?" Gregory asked. His voice rasped and his
face was a mask of pain; he gripped his right shoulder
and his chest. He looked ready to pass out.
"I don't know," Jill said. She thought that maybe she
was. Dropping the mop handle from her sensationless
fingers, she took two long, shambling steps toward the
escalators, bowed deeply and threw up all over the floor.
*
Frank took a deep breath as he keyed the alert code into
the INS computer. The screen flashed the American
Airlines logo for a long five seconds, then cycled to the
status screen. Beneath neat rows of cryptic numbering
sequences, the following line was displayed:
LAST PROGRAM COMPLETE.
ENTER NEW PROGRAM? Y/N
"Atta baby," he whispered to himself. He typed the letter
Y. At the prompt, he selected the choice for Special
Options, then the option to reverse-plot the previous
course. The computer mulled this over for a while, then
stated:
PROGRAMING COMPLETE. AA 74 IAD/LAX DIRECT
"Frank?"
Frank turned around to find Elise standing in the cockpit
doorway. She bit nervously on the nail of her left thumb.
"What is it, Elise?" His voice was restrained, but also
had a touch of sympathy. "I'm rather busy right now."
She nodded apologetically. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine," he said, then amended: "Here,
anyway. Shouldn't you be out guarding the ramp?"
"I keep hoping someone will come to the door and yell out
to me what's going on." She looked uncertainly back over
her shoulder. "I thought I heard someone yelling a while
ago. It's hard to be sure though... with the noise and
all."
Frank nodded. The noise was alarmingly loud.
"Do you think they're all right?"
"I'm sure they are," he said. "If it'll make you feel any
better, you can stand in the hatchway instead of at the
base of the ladder. Just yell if you see any trouble."
"Okay," Elise murmured. She started to turn away, then
stopped. "Are you scared, Frank?"
Concentrating on the INS console, Frank replied in an
assured tone: "I am, Elise. But I'm keeping it under
control. You do the same."
Looking not at all reassured, Elise turned away.
Suddenly, Frank admitted: "I'm scared to death, okay. I'm
scared that noise will reach us before we get this bird
in the air. I'm scared that crazy fucking woman's gone
and killed our poor Jessica and will kill someone else
before she's taken down. I'm afraid the fuel won't burn."
He took a deep, shaky breath, exhaled, then continued in
a soft voice. "Most of all, I'm afraid what will happen
when we do get in the air and head back." He turned
around. "That scares me the most, Elise. If you really
want to know."
Elise's face was pasty-white. She looked on the verge of
tears. "Thank you," she whispered. "I just don't want to
be terrified alone." And then she left.
Watching after her for almost fifteen seconds, Frank
slowly shook his head, then turned back to the INS
computer. The display read:
EXECUTE NEW PROGRAM--IAD/LAX DIRECT Y/N?
Frank hit the EXECUTE button.
INSTRUCTIONS ACCEPTED.
THANK YOU FOR FLYING AMERICAN AIRLINES.
"You're very welcome, I'm sure," Frank muttered. Then he
said: "Just let the fucking jet fuel burn."
*
Elise fidgeted restlessly atop the mobile ramp. She took
out her pack of Marlboro's, shook one free, then slid the
cigarette back into the pack. This was the third time she
had done this since returning outside.
One of the experimental books of matches that Gregory had
brought aboard was tucked beneath the cellophane wrapper;
she had struck one a few minutes before and it had lit
right up. She shared Frank's fear about the fuel,
however.
"Please let it burn," she whispered. "Please, please."
The noise from the east had taken on a new and even more
ominous sound. Underlaying the crunch-rattle-crunch was a
high, inanimate screaming. It sounded to Elise like the
whine of her ex-boyfriend Jeff's Camaro when it was red-
lined in first.
"It's a lot closer now, isn't it?" she whispered to
herself. She looked nervously around, as though someone
might answer.
Taking the pack of cigarette's back out of her pocket,
she lit one up. Drawing deep and holding the smoke in,
she released it slowly, watching the smoke drift lazily
through the air before dispersing--a breeze had started
up.
Wondering if she should report this newest change to
Frank Trafano, Elise was startled to find him by her
side. Thin strands of hair lifted off his forehead in the
gentle breeze, then settled back. He patted at them
gently.
"From the southeast," he said, reflectively. "Just as it
should be." He cocked his ear to the east.
"What do you think it is, Frank? Really?"
He shook his head slowly. "My dear, pray we never have to
find out."
*
Halfway down the escalator, Solomon stopped. Jill was
bent over in the middle of the floor, coughing miserably,
strings of saliva dangling from her lips. Between her
feet was a splatter of vomit. Catherine was flat on her
back, arms outflung, her face a horrible mess. Gregory
sat in one of the plastic chairs, looking mournfully at
Catherine and gripping his left arm. Blood stained the
left side of his shirt front.
"Are you all right?" Solomon asked, hurrying down the
remaining steps.
Jill stood erect and wiped her mouth. Tears danced in her
eyes. She hiccuped loudly. "I-I think so," she said,
looking at Catherine's recumbent form. "I don't know
about her, though. And Gregory's hurt." She went to stand
beside Gregory's chair. "We need to get him upstairs,
Solomon, find out how badly he's injured."
"I'm okay," Gregory said. "It's just a couple of flesh
wounds. They're not as bad as they look."
Solomon crossed to where Gregory sat, unbuttoned his
shirt, and pulled it back over his shoulders. The wound
on his chest was an inch long and puckered at the edges.
It bled only lightly. He inspected Catherine's attempted
stab in the back.
"They don't appear to be life threatening," he concurred.
"But they do need to be dressed." He helped Gregory
rebutton his shirt.
"Is Jessica alive?" Jill asked.
"For now."
Taking Gregory's arm, Jill said: "I should take him
upstairs."
Solomon nodded distractedly and walked over to where
Catherine lay on the floor; he stood looking down at her,
frowning. He slowly shook his head. "You did this?" His
tone was almost reverent.
Jill said dully, "Yes."
"Good work."
Jill's face crunched in distress and she took two
hitching, deep breaths. "She--she was in the Airport
Services office. Waiting for us. If I hadn't seen the
out-of-place chair... "
Gregory finished for her: "She'd have killed us both."
All three looked at Catherine's prostrate form.
Gregory said: "You should have seen her, Solomon. She was
pure Rambo. She saved my fucking life."
Jill looked away in indifference, or what could be
mistaken for indifference, but neither Gregory or Solomon
were fooled.
"Are you all right, Jill?" Solomon repeated.
"I never killed anyone before," she uttered with another
strangled sob.
"You haven't now," Solomon told her. "She's still
breathing."
"She is?" Jill's face was equally hopeful and anxious.
"Yes."
Jill then heard the harsh rasp of Catherine's labored
breathing, and saw the movement of her rising and falling
chest. She let out a long, silent breath of her own. She
averted her eyes from Catherine's devastated mouth.
"What about the stretcher?" Solomon asked.
Gregory looked at Solomon as though he had spoken in
Aramaic.
"The stretcher?" he repeated.
"Oh," Gregory said. "In there," indicating the open
Airport Services door.
"Great! We certainly need it."
"There's a first aid kit too," Jill said, suddenly
remembering.
"Even better."
Jill accompanied him to the door. "I'm afraid the
flashlight broke," she said. It lay forlornly on the
carpet, the plastic lens cracked neatly up the middle.
Solomon dug in his pocket. "Wait a minute," he muttered,
coming out with a battered old Zippo lighter. It gleamed
faintly in the dark. He thumbed back the cover, held it
up, and flicked the wheel. There was a spark and the wick
caught at once, producing a bright yellow flame.
"You smoke?" Jill asked.
"Not anymore," he answered. Walking around the desk,
glancing momentarily at the spray of papers on the floor
and the upside down IN/OUT basket, then at the swivel
chair, now pushed up against the back wall, he said: "You
two were lucky. Catherine could have gotten you both."
Jill only nodded.
Opening the first aid kit, Solomon removed a handful of
gauze pads, a roll of medical tape, a bottle of hydrogen
peroxide, and half a dozen foil packets of antiseptic
cream. These he handed to Jill. Closing the box up again,
he then removed the folded stretcher from beneath it.
"Let's go," he said. "We're running out of time."
Emerging from Airport Services offices, they hurried over
to where Gregory sat; Solomon helped him to his feet.
"You two head upstairs and get Tanya to dress those
wounds. I'll be up momentarily."
Jill's eyes narrowed. "What are you going to do?"
"Check on our troublesome friend."
"Solomon... "
"Take the stretcher upstairs. I'll join you shortly."
"What are you going to do?" Jill insisted.
Solomon looked at her with his oddly gentle eyes. "Go on,
Jill. I'll join you soon. And don't look back."
Jill stared at him a moment longer, then wordlessly took
the folded up stretcher and lead Gregory over to the
frozen escalator. Head down, the stretcher dangling from
her hand like an empty suitcase, she helped Gregory climb
the stairs. She didn't look back.
*
Solomon waited until Jill and Gregory had disappeared up
the stairs, then walked back over to Catherine Montes and
squatted down beside her. Her breathing seemed a little
more regular now, and her color better. Some of the
bleeding had stopped. Given a day or two of intensive
care--and a good lawyer--she'd certainly recover. He
reached out, placing one hand over Catherine's mouth and
the other over her nose. He looked up the frozen
mechanical stairs.
This was murder, he thought. Cold-blooded murder. It made
him recoil. Then he remembered the shaft of bloody steel
coming out of Jessica's chest and her tortured scream;
his resolve hardened again. Besides, if he did leave
Catherine alive, what was he leaving her for? A short,
haunted existence in this crazy world until whatever was
approaching from the east--approaching with a sound like
that of a colony of giant, marauding termites--arrived?
No. Best to put her out of it now. This would be
painless, and that would be good enough.
"Better than you deserve," he muttered. But still he
hesitated.
He remembered the white hand snaking out and grasping his
cuff; Jessica's tortured blue eyes. Don't you kill her!
Not so much a plea as a command. A command that had taken
her final, pitiful reserves of strength to utter. All I
know is that we need her, she'd said.
"How can we need her?" Solomon demanded aloud. "She's
been nothing but fucking trouble!"
We just do! Jessica's disembodied voice answered.
Abruptly standing up and bunching his hands, Solomon left
Catherine Montes to her tortured breathing. He tromped
over to the motionless escalator and bounded up, two
steps at a time, muttering obscenities under his breath.
"You better be fucking right!" he warned.
Chapter 14
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
12:42 P.M. PDT (3:42 P.M. EDT)
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
Dulles International Airport,
Washington, D.C.
Elise cast away her half-burned cigarette and began to
slowly descend the stairs. She was halfway down when the
others emerged through the maintenance door. They carried
Jessica strapped down to a stretcher, Solomon on the
front and Jill and Tanya side by side at the rear.
Gregory jogged along beside them holding his right
shoulder. Elise gasped at the blood on the front of
Gregory's shirt and ran down to meet them.
"What happened!" she demanded.
Gregory shook his head. He indicated the white-faced
Jessica on the stretcher. "We need to get her inside."
"Let me help," she said, taking one side of the front of
the stretcher. Solomon looked relieved.
"We need to go up as level as possible," Tanya said. "And
try not to jiggle her."
Elise and Solomon both stepped up on the ramp's first
tread, and then turned sideways.
"How bad is she?" Elise asked.
"Not good," Solomon said grimly. "Unconscious, but still
alive."
"What about Catherine?" She had to raise her voice to be
heard; the crunch-rattle-crunch was louder now, and that
wound-out transmission screech was becoming the dominant
factor.
"She's alive, but I don't know what bloody well for,"
Solomon growled. "We'll discuss it later. Right now
there's no time." Together they ascended three steps and
at the other end, Tanya and Jill raised the stretcher to
shoulder height. "Keep our end low," he said.
They moved the stretcher slowly and carefully up the
stairs, Solomon and Elise stepping sideways at the front,
Jill and Tanya struggling with the other end. Gregory
followed half a dozen steps behind, alternately throwing
looks back at the concourse, and then to the east. He
clutched his right shoulder tight.
Frank arrived at the hatch just as Solomon and Elise
reached the top of the ladder and eased their end of the
stretcher inside.
"I want to put her in First Class," Tanya said, "with
that end of the stretcher raised so that her head is up.
Can I do that?"
"No problem that I see," Frank answered. "The seat belts
can run up through the hand holds and lock it down. But
you may want the general cabin instead, right across the
central seats. That way you can have access from both
sides."
"Good idea." To Solomon and Elise, she said: "Go ahead.
You're doing just fine."
Under the cabin lights, Jessica's blood stood out starkly
against her pale white skin. It covered her cheeks and
chin in a drying crust. Her eyes were closed, but her
eyes moved restlessly back and forth beneath them; her
lips uttered silent but urgent words. Her breathing had
the sound of death.
"How bad is it?" Frank asked, his voice cracking. He ran
his hand over Jessica's damp hair as they lowered the
stretcher into a row of seats.
Tanya grunted. "Her lung was punctured on both sides. The
knife went straight through. She's bleeding into her
lungs and the chest cavity, but not as fast I had
feared."
"Will she live until we get back?"
"How the fuck should I know?" Tanya shouted at him
suddenly. "I'm a nurse, not a fucking guru!"
The others froze, looking at her with shocked eyes. Jill
put her hand on Tanya's arm and said softly: "You're
doing wonderful. Better than we could have ever hoped."
Tanya muttered: "Sorry. This has been a very trying day."
"For us all," Frank said, gripping her right shoulder.
"We're all just thankful you were here."
Tanya gave a tired smile and brushed back her hair. "We
need to strap her in. Then we need the hell out of this
place."
Five minutes later, the group gathered around Frank in a
tight little knot in the First Class cabin. Jessica
continued to mutter in her sleep--only it wasn't sleep,
Jill suspected, but a type of trauma-induced coma. Before
leaving to go forward, she thought she had made out
Catherine's name--and it gave her the chills.
Frank said: "I'm going to run this thing over to the L-
1011. While I do that, three of you--" he pointed to
Jill, Tanya and Gregory "--are going to bring down that
hose-cart sitting right there between the jetways." He
pointed out a gray and white cart sitting beside the red
tanker truck. "We'll need that for refueling."
"What about me?" Elise asked. "What am I going to do?"
She stood closely beside Gregory--Jill realized she was
holding his hand--and her tone indicated she felt picked
upon again.
Frank fixed her with a slightly irritated look. "Don't
worry. You're temporarily off the hook." He turned his
attention back to the group. "Two strong men can push a
hose cart, no problem; I've seen it done before. Two
strong women and a slightly injured man should be able to
in a pinch. Gregory, you steer. Just check the
transmission to make sure it's in neutral before you
move. You want to end up directly beneath the overlapped
wings. Got it?"
They said that they did.
"Solomon, you and Elise move the ladder away, then
reposition it next to the wings once I've stopped the
plane. The wings, okay--not the door. Got it?"
Solomon and Elise both nodded.
"Let's get to it then!" he said, clapping his hands.
As a group, they all made for the hatch. Their eyes were
bright and for the first time in many hours, they looked
ready to smile.
Of course we are, Jill thought. We have something to do.
Something constructive. Pausing for just a moment to
consider the noise pounding in from the east, she
wondered if they had time remaining to complete their
missions. And what would happen then.
*
As they approached the hose cart, Jill realized they had
transitioned from shadow into light. Looking up, she
watched the sun get blanketed again by slow moving
clouds, moving in from the south. "It's catching up fast.
The sun has moved... what? Almost an hour?"
"At least that," Tanya said. She put out her hand, moving
it open-fingered through the gently stirring air. Then
she touched her hair. "The humidity is back and I swear
it feels ten degrees warmer."
Jill looked down at the ground. As if by magic, oil
stains and grease spots had appeared on the previously
immaculate concrete. "I wonder how much time we've got?"
Her instincts told her it wasn't a tremendous lot longer.
Tanya said: "Let's hurry."
The cart was a small vehicle with a tank on the back, an
open-air cab, and thick black hoses coiled on either
side. Jill and Gregory stood back as Tanya inspected
inside the cab, then walked completely around the cart in
a circle. She pushed experimentally against the tank,
rocking the cart gently back and forth. This seemed to
reassure her.
"You get in, Gregory," she said. "Jill and I can handle
this."
Gregory one-armed himself up into the cab, examined the
rudimentary set of controls, depressed the clutch and
moved the shift lever into neutral. Behind them, the
pitch of the 767's engines wound higher as Frank powered
them up. The noise from the east was very loud now, but
the roar and throb of the jet engines almost drowned it
out. Jill found she didn't mind that at all. She joined
Tanya at the rear of the cart.
"Ready?" Tanya asked.
Jill nodded. Placing her hands against the smoothly
rounded surface, she got ready to push. Tanya did the
same.
"Would you like to have dinner with me when we get back
to LA.?" Tanya suddenly asked.
Jill's eyes opened wide. "Yes," she said immediately.
"That would be nice."
That would be nice? That's the best you can do?
"I'd like that very much," she added, laughing softly.
"For whatever its worth."
Tanya's eyes sparkled. "Right now, its worth a lot."
Up front, Gregory shifted through the gears again, then
moved the shift lever back into neutral and jumped down.
"Let's go!" he yelled.
Jill started to object but Gregory cut her off. "Once we
get it going, I'll jump back in and steer. Until then...
" he put his good shoulder against the frame of the open
door and and began to push. Jill put her back into it as
well and the cart rolled forward with almost absurd ease.
Tanya let out a little laugh and wagged her head.
"Two strong women, indeed!"
Once up to walking speed, Gregory jumped back in the cart
and turned it toward the 767, which was trundling slowly
into position aside the parked L-1011.
"You know, the difference between the two aircraft is
barely visible now," Tanya marveled.
Jill had to agreed. Where before the 767 was the only
"real" looking object in this crazy, flat as a pancake
world, the landscape's third-dimension was reasserting
itself. Everywhere she looked, things looked almost
normal again. She had that alarming sense of time running
out.
The 767's turbines slowly died away, leaving only a
steady low rumble. Then the starboard engine died away
completely as Frank shut it down. The idling port-side
engine and APU were no longer loud enough to blanket the
noise and where before, that sound had had a kind of
massive uniformity, a bee-hive syncophany of beating
wings, it was fragmenting now; the wound-out transmission
screech still held the dominant edge but other sounds--
sounds within sounds--the sum of which seemed horribly
familiar, began to make themselves heard.
Army ants in a feeding frenzy, Jill thought. Billions of
marauding ants, defoliating not a broad swath of tropical
forest, but an entire planet, a planet laid completely
bare by their passing.
She shivered violently and felt panic chomping away at
her thoughts like an attacking barracuda, an elemental
force she could control no more than she could control
whatever it was making that sound.
"Maybe if we could see it," Gregory said as they pushed
the fuel cart into position, "we could deal with it
better."
Jill glanced at him briefly and said, "I don't think so.
I don't think so at all."
*
Once the plane had stopped, Solomon and Elise rolled the
ladder to the hatch where Frank stood waiting, then over
to the overlapping wings. Touching it gently against the
flaps of the 767, Solomon used the foot-kick to lock the
ladder in place. Frank then carefully climbed down the
steps until his head was level with the underside of the
United jet's wing. Flush to the riveted aluminum skin was
a small square hatch with the words FUEL TANK ACCESS and
CHECK SHUT-OFF VALVE BEFORE REFUELING stenciled on the
lid. A ring-pull similar to the one for the access hatch
inside the plane was inset into its surface. Bracing
himself with a leg around a rail-post, Frank reached out
and sprang the fuel lid open.
"We okay?" Solomon called up. The army-ant clamor almost
drowned him out.
Frank leaned over and shouted down: "See those two hoses?
Hand me up the shorter of the two!"
Tanya worked loose the hose on the right-hand side of the
cart and handed it over to Solomon, who passed it up to
Frank. Pointing to a long, yellow-handled shut off valve
to which the hose was connected, Frank instructed Tanya
to make sure it was in the closed position. Then, holding
the ladder rail in one hand, and the nozzle of the hose
with the other, he leaned far under the wing and
positioned the nozzle directly beneath the fuel port. A
male connector with a single steel alignment pin was
inside. Loosely meshing the two of them together and
looking down at the others, he yelled: "Unless you want a
jet-fuel bath, I suggest you stand back!"
Solomon, Jill and Tanya scrambled back. Elise remained
stationed at the bottom of the ladder, trying to keep it
steady. Taking a deep breath, Frank muttered,
"Considering, of course, there's anything inside to
leak," and using both hands, twisted the nozzle upward
and counter-clockwise, locking it onto the fuel port.
There was a brief spatter of fuel--a very welcome
spatter--and then the tough, canvas hose grew rigid as
jet-fuel ran down to the cart below.
"Okay," he called, pulling himself back to the ladder.
"So far, so good." He climbed down to the ground, where
Solomon pumped his hand with a well-deserved handshake.
"What now? Does the cart have something to do with it? Or
is it just a pass-through device?"
Frank said, "Normally, the cart does the pumping. It acts
as a fuel-filter also, trapping condensated water and
other impurities in the fuel. The hose we hooked to the
underside of the L-1011's wing usually goes right there."
He pointed to a round brass cover plate embedded in the
concrete near the fuel tanker truck. "We'll hook the
other hose up to the underside our wing, throw a couple
of switches, and let the port-side engine power the
transfer."
"How long will it take?"
Frank consulted his watch; his look of expectation faded.
"Under optimum conditions--which would be pumping from
the ground through the fuel cart--we could load 2,000
pounds of fuel a minute. Doing it like this is harder to
figure. I've never had to use the engines before to power
a transfer." He looked cheerlessly at the waiting cart.
"70,000 pounds? If the 1011 even has that much? At least
an hour. Maybe an hour and a half."
Solomon gazed anxiously toward the east. After a time, he
shook his head and said in a low voice: "I hope you're
wrong about that, Frank."
"Why?"
"Because I don't think we have an hour. We may not even
have half of that. "
*
Alone in the first class cabin, Jessica opened her eyes
and saw. What she saw, however, was not the white plastic
structure of the 767's ceiling liner, but the formless
gray-white of someone else's eyelids.
"Catherine," she whispered.
*
Catherine.
Catherine slowly stirred. She slowly shook her head. Go
away mama! she said inside her head. I want to sleep.
Slowly it dawned on her, however, that the voice was not
that of her mother.
Catherine! Get up!
"Leave me alone!"
Her head had become a vast echoey chamber of pain. Pain
roared back and forth within it like a gaudily painted
circus bandwagon, blowing it's horn and screeching its
tires on the tarmac of her brain pan. Circus clowns from
the Barnum and Bailey Circus beat monstrous drums and
pounded horrific kettles, insisting on driving her mad
with their bedlam. She uttered a thick, industrial-sized
groan and tried chasing them away with her hands.
Catherine, you have to get up! Now!
Her head rocked slowly back and forth on the carpeted
floor.
You can't stay here, the voice insisted. The langoliers
will come.
"Let them," she answered in a barely audible croak. "I
don't care. In fact, I welcome it!"
Her effort was rewarded by a shriek of trumpeting pain.
Clouds of bees, furious and stinging mad, flew from the
horns as they sounded.
Suddenly, her mother's voice took over: Get up, Catherine
Marie. It's payback time. As soon as you get up, our
little friend is going to invite you out for a walk. A
gun is waiting for you, all silver and shiny and has
bullets inscribed with somebody else's name.
Catherine, despite the swirling, bottomless pit of her
anguish, found herself interested. "Who's name?" she
asked.
You know who...
Catherine's hands shuffled on the carpet. She made an
effort to open her eyes, but glue held them closed.
Someone had super-glued her eye lids together.
"No," she muttered. "He's dead. You're dead. They're all
dead. You can't trick me anymore, mama, and you can't
make me do things I don't want to do. The langoliers are
all made up and I don't have to listen to you anymore!"
Only... that wasn't true. Somewhere beyond her mother's
phantom voice--and the weird voice of that other--she
heard the thrum of jet engines... and something else.
Something else that had the ability to make the kettle
drums and trumpets of pain in her head seem like the soft
touch of a finger. Something that made all the ravenous
army ants that had ever existed since the beginning of
time look like purposeless, meandering slugs.
Catherine, get up. You have to get up!
The weird voice of the other was back. It emanated from
far away, soft and yet damnably insistent. It seemed to
come from outside her head, not from the inside as did
her mother's. It was familiar too, almost like that of...
Catherine. He's come here to you! He's left the city and
come here to let you have your say. That's how important
this is. You can still do it, Catherine. You can still
stick the pin. Hand him his walking papers; bail out
while you still have the time... if you're woman enough
to do it.
"Woman enough?" she croaked. "Woman enough? You dumb
fucking bimbo--you've got to be kidding!"
Struggling onto her elbows and then into a sitting
position--darkness exploded inside her head like a
detonation of thunder--she tried again to open her eyes.
Blood bonded her eyelashes together. Working one hand up
to her face, and then to her right eye, she used two
fingers to pry her eyelids apart. Light was admitted, and
inside her head, pain buzzed and grumbled and paced back
and forth--but the worst of it had subsided.
Slowly, a little at a time, Catherine looked around.
And saw her.
"What the... "
It was the young girl, Jessica, but her stab wound was
gone and her powder blue top was spotless again. She
gently smiled, even with her blue eyes.
Come on, Catherine. Get up. I know it's hard, but you
have such an opportunity here. The man is waiting
outside. Outside where the world can witness your
retribution, your vindication! But he won't wait forever.
The langoliers will see to that.
The girl was not standing on the carpeted floor,
Catherine saw, but on what appeared to be... clouds? In
fact, the air surrounding her was different. She seemed
encapsulated within an eggshell of shimmering white
light, superimposed on the air. Only it wasn't the light
alone that shimmered... Catherine realized she saw right
through Jessica to the Information counter beyond. Prying
open her left eye, she saw that it wasn't a trick of the
light.
Come on, Catherine. Get up.
Catherine struggled to her feet. It was very hard--her
sense of balance seemed ninety degrees out of kilter--and
her head buzzed and swarmed with the sound of angry bees-
-killer bees. Bees that stung her brain and poisoned it
with their venom. Twice she fell back, each time barely
keeping her feet, until finally she staggered to the
closest row of chairs and clung to the back of one like a
Central Park drunk.
"This better be good," she muttered.
I promise, the young girl said, smiling gently. Now
hurry, Catherine. He's waiting. Waiting for you. Always,
waiting for you.
*
Jessica lay on the stretcher, her eyes moving
relentlessly back and forth beneath her translucent, red-
veined eyelids; the drawn, starkly-white pallor of her
skin lay in sharp contrast to the bright red blood
staining her teeth. She muttered wordlessly as, one
hundred yards away, Catherine Montes distractedly pushed
at her hair, twisted and pulled at her severely cut gray
blazer and skirt, and stretched the muscles in her neck
in some grotesque parity of preparing for a speech or to
walk out on stage. On her bloody face was a restrained
yet clearly evident mixture of emotions: anger, hope, and
a kind of merciless determination.
I'm sorry for you, Jessica thought. In spite of what you
did to me, I'm sorry for you. The ordeal affected you so
much worse than it did the rest of us, Catherine. I think
you should have gone over. You were so close to the edge.
But you're here now and we need you, Catherine, we really
do.
Bringing her thoughts into narrow focus, Jessica pushed
them with great effort across the intervening distance to
Catherine's head.
Hurry, Catherine! It's almost too late!
And she sensed that it was.
*
After attaching the second of the two hoses to the 767's
fuel port, Frank returned to the cockpit, cycled up the
port-side engine, and went to work sucking the L-1011's
fuel tanks dry. The bulk of the original fuel--eight
thousand pounds of it--was tucked safely away in the
center tank; the port-side engine and the APU ran on what
remained in the left. As the LED readout on his left tank
slowly began to register the oncoming fuel, he waited
tensely for the engines to falter. They did not and he
began to breath easier. But as the LED ticked over the
4,000-pound mark, he heard a change in pitch of the small
jet engine at the rear of the plane, and then the port-
side engine changed as well--they both grew rough and
labored.
"What's happening?" Solomon asked. He had joined Frank in
the cockpit and sat in the copilot's chair. His shirt was
disarrayed, with wide streaks of grease and blood across
its formerly natty, button-down front.
"The APU and Number One are getting a taste of the 1011's
fuel and don't like it," Frank said. "I sure hope
Gregory's magic works."
"Why don't you switch over?" Solomon asked.
Frank positioned his hand over a set of switches marked
FUEL TRANSFER and gave Solomon an apprehensive look. "I
can switch them back to the center tank, but that leaves
us not knowing if the fuel's changing over or not. And if
this isn't going to work, we need to know about it right
now."
"What about just the port-side engine? Can you switch
that over?"
Frank shook his head. "It's all or nothing."
"Fuck."
Just as the LED reached 9,000 pounds in the left wing
tank, the port-side engine flamed out. A red ENGINE
SHUTDOWN light appeared on the master console and klaxon
alarmed. Frank throttled back, then restarted the engine.
Roughly, it cycled back up.
"This is not good," he mumbled. Adjusting dials marked
FUEL MIXTURE RATIO on the console just below the
throttles, he let breath out in a low soft whistle as the
engine slowly smoothed out. Then the APU suddenly died.
"What can we do about this?" Solomon asked. He got up to
look over Frank's right shoulder.
"Restart it and hope it keeps running. We need them
both." Frank restarted the APU, adjusting the fuel
mixture then consulting a readout. "Number One is running
hot."
"Is that bad?"
"Not yet."
Thirty seconds later the left engine started to fail
again and while Frank was moving his hand to adjust the
mixture ratio, the APU flamed out; the cockpit lights
went with it.
"No! No! No!" Frank said, flipping the fuel transfer
switches over to the center tank. "Not now!" he hissed,
"Not fucking now!"
As the APU slowly came back to life, he moved the port
engine's throttles to idle, then restarted it again.
Smoothly, it cycled up to speed. "That was close. That
was way too fucking close." He dialed the fuel mixtures
down to normal. "We'll just have to wait."
Staring at Frank with big round eyes, Solomon said: "What
if we're wrong? What if it doesn't change over?"
Frank looked back at him with eyes equally as scared.
"Let's just pray it does."
Five minutes later the left wing tank contained nearly
24,000 pounds, its maximum load. Frank crossed his
fingers in a sign of hope, then switched the fuel
transfer over to the opposite tank. Waiting in silence
for another five minutes, he then reached out and
switched the APU and port-side engine back to the left
tank. Two nerve-jangling minutes went by.
"We might have lucked out," Solomon said, a big, slow
grin lighting his face. "We might just have lucked out!"
Frank raised his hands, crossed four sets of fingers, and
shook them in the air. "Let's fucking hope so!"
When another two minutes went by and the APU and left
engine showed no signs of quitting, they both whooped and
high-fived in the air.
Christine appeared in the doorway behind them. "Is
everything all right?"
"My dear," Frank said without turning, "I think we might
just have bought our way out of this thing!"
*
Catherine had finally managed to make herself right. Or
as right as a devastated mouth, a severely lacerated left
temple and cross-eyed vision would alloy. She looked
slowly around.
The encapsulated Jessica had disappeared for a time, but
had now rejoined her. She floated twenty feet away, near
the immobile set of escalators, her feet in the clouds.
She looked at Catherine with a benign sweetness. A benign
sweetness and something else... something Catherine had
worked for her entire life, but had never really attained
It was understanding.
Understanding and compassion.
It almost made her cry.
Looking around, she saw through the floor to ceiling
windows that the 767 was no longer parked in its expected
spot. She blinked slowly in confusion, then walked toward
the windows between two rows of seats. An unexpected fear
speared her heart. If David Twomy were truly here, if the
girl had actually brought him--and she was certain she
had--then she could complete her mission and go home.
Safely home, where the thoughts of others would cease to
matter and the langoliers with their crunch-rattle-crunch
couldn't bother her again.
But only if the others were here. If they had left...
Hurrying over to the windows, Catherine released a
lungfull of pent up breath. The plane was still there,
parked down by the runway beside a United Airlines jet.
Some Rube Goldberg-contraption had been set up beneath
the overlapped wings--probably refueling, some pitifully
small part of her logical brain put forth--so she still
had time. Not much, but a little.
"Wait for me," she said out loud. "I'm coming."
They'll wait, the encapsulated Jessica said. But you have
to hurry, Catherine. You have to hurry before they decide
you're not coming and leave.
Nodding her head comically up and down, Catherine began
to make her way forward. The girl's feet did not move,
but as Catherine approached her, she floated up the
motionless escalator like a balloon, toward the main
concourse above her, and the way out.
And... oh, glorious, Catherine thought: To the waiting
David Twomy.
*
They were all inside on the plane now, all except Elise
and Gregory, who stood halfway up the metal stairs and
listened to the sound roll toward them from the east. It
was almost intolerably loud.
Jill, who stood at the open hatch and watched the
terminal building, still wondered what they would do
about Catherine, if Catherine were still alive. She hoped
Solomon had told the truth. She felt miserable about what
she had done. She jumped when Tanya appeared beside her.
"Jessica is talking in her sleep. To Catherine, I think.
She's delirious."
Jill accompanied her back to the cabin, where Solomon,
sitting across from Jessica, held one of the young girl's
hands. He looked up at them anxiously.
"I think we might be loosing her," he said. "She's very
hot."
JIll felt the young girl's forehead. She nodded slowly.
The bleeding had slowed to an acceptable level, but the
girl's respiration came in a series of pitiful whistling
gasps. Blood encrusted her mouth like a child's attempt
to apply lipstick .
Tanya began, "I think--" and then Jessica said, quite
clearly, "They'll wait. But you have to hurry, Catherine,
have to hurry before they decide you're not coming and
leave."
Jill, Solomon and Tanya exchanged puzzled, frightened
looks.
"She's dreaming about Catherine," Solomon said. "She
keeps repeating her name over and over again."
"Yes," Jessica said, as though in answer. Her eyes were
closed, but her head moved slightly to the right; she
appeared to listen. "I will," she said. "But you have to
hurry. The langoliers are close, Catherine, and are
getting closer by the minute. The others might wait, but
the langoliers surely won't."
Her use of the name of Catherine's childhood specter gave
Jill the creeps. From the looks on the other's faces, it
did them as well. She shivered lightly.
That sound... that sound is so--
Real?
"We are loosing her, aren't we?" Solomon whispered.
"No," Tanya said. "I don't think so. I think she's
just... dreaming."
But that was not what Jill thought. What she thought was
that Jessica might be in the throes of something else
entirely. Something possibly even worse than the mess
they now found themselves in, something possibly related.
For if the two of them--Catherine and Jessica--really
were in metal contact, had they not been quite as asleep
as the others? What had Jessica said? I'm a very light
sleeper... I wake up at the drop of a leaf?
If being too close to the edge of consciousness at the
moment of the event had somehow bound them together, if
the fates of Jessica and Catherine were intertwined like
some mental pair of Siamese twins, then what of their own
fates? Could they all be in danger?
"Leave her alone," she said in a dry, abrupt tone of
voice. "Leave her alone and let her sleep."
Solomon let out a miserable breath. "God, I hope we take
off soon."
Nodding, Tanya put a comforting arm around his shoulders.
*
Catherine reached the top of the escalators and stood
there panting. A throbbing agony had settled on her mouth
and would not let her think. She tried to remember just
what had happened to her, what had brought her to this,
but nothing would come. Nothing at all.
Squinting her eyes against the pain, she looked around
for the encapsulated girl, locating her fifty feet down
the concourse. She was so lovely, that small part of her
functioning mind thought, so full of life. How could she
ever have thought that Jessica would betray her?
"You are an angel," she croaked.
Yes, the waiting girl replied. If that's what you want.
Catherine was overcome with joy. Her vision blurred and
then tears--the first ones she had ever cried as an adult
(other than when being spanked)--began to run slowly down
her cheeks. She found herself remembering that old song,
sang by her mother sometimes as a drunken taunt, a song
that as an adult Catherine normally despised.
Just call me angel of the morning, angel...
"Are you an angel?" Catherine asked. "My guardian angel?"
That's why I'm here, Catherine--to help guide you out.
But for God's sakes hurry! The langoliers are almost here
and David Twomy will not wait!
"Yes," Catherine sobbed. She began to stagger down the
concourse, one eye open, one eye closed--blood had
reglued her left eyelid shut--and though every step was
an exercise in pain, it was pain she gladly accepted. She
would crawl if that's what it took.
Ahead of her, the smiling girl had stopped before the
service door and showed it to Catherine with a sweep of
her hand. She seemed so kind, so understanding, so
gentle. So much like...
What I might have been if not for my mother, she thought.
What I still might be, once this is done.
Her eyes pouring out fresh tears, Catherine grasped the
door handle in her undamaged right hand and pulled it
open.
"Just call me angel of the morning, angel. Just touch my
cheek before you leave me, baby," she sang as she started
unsteadily down the stairs.
*
To the east of the airport, there was an immense cracking
sound like the shattering of a concrete column in an
earthquake. Gregory and Elise, silently watching the
horizon, both jumped and had to clasp the rails of the
ladder to keep from tumbling down. Their faces, pallid
and filled with dreadful questions, went utterly white.
"What was that?" Elise cried.
"A tree maybe?" Gregory replied.
"But there's no wind!"
"Not enough to do that," he agreed.
The noise had escalated to an almost unbearable decibel
level. It was a plethora of sound, some monstrous
soundtrack made up of individual, yet weirdly overlapping
tracks. One track would momentarily advance to the
forefront, only to be shoved aside moments later by
another, even louder track. At one moment Jill, back at
the hatch now along with Tanya, would swear she heard
some nightmare animal howling, only to hear that sound
swallowed up like a minnow on the end of a hook by
something even worse, something like the world's largest
shovel scraped across the world's widest sidewalk. Then
that sound was supplanted by the screeching, red-lined
transmission sound. And supporting all those, like the
underlying bass line of a heavy metal soundtrack, the
constant crunch-rattle-crunch of marauding giant army-
ants.
From beyond the far line of trees came another rending
crack.
"What is that?" Elise cried shrilly. She started to cover
her ears and then Gregory seized her arm and pointed.
"Look!" he shouted. "Look over there!"
Far to the east of them, on the horizon, a series of high
rise towers jutted their final few stories above the tree
line. Suddenly, one of the towers gave off an immense
plume of dust from the northeast corner, and the corner
began to sink. Then, like a building dynamited from
within in a controlled demolition, the entire structure
sank down, replaced moments later by a billowing cloud of
dust. As the deep-throated rumble of its destruction
reached them, the tower just to the south began to
collapse as well, and then the one beside it. Within
thirty seconds, the entire series was gone.
"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" Elise trilled. She began to
backpedal up the steps, dragging Gregory along with her.
From within the open hatchway, Jill yelled loudly: "The
trees! Look at the trees! They're coming down too!"
As all of them watched, a great swath of trees in front
of the demolished buildings simply fell away from sight.
Jill had the crazy idea that some massive hand had just
yanked them down through the earth by their roots. And
all the while, the crunch-rattle-crunch, the nightmare
animal howling and the red-lined transmission sound grew
stronger.
"We have to get out of here!" Tanya cried. She gripped
Jill with both hands and her eyes were huge with a kind
of reverential terror. "We have to get out of here right
now!"
On the horizon, perhaps ten miles distant, the slender
silhouette of a radio tower trembled, then swayed in a
gentle S-curve as the series of guy wires holding it
erect snapped; it delicately fell in upon itself into the
quaking, disappearing trees. Then the earth began to
vibrate with the destructive force's elemental power and,
all along the length of the mid-field concourse building,
windows began to flex and bow.
"Make it stop!" Elise suddenly screamed. She clapped her
hands over her ears and no one was getting them off.
"Please make it STOP!"
But the sound-wave only intensified, rolling toward them
with a terrible frenzy--the crunching, smacking, eating
sound of the langoliers.
*
"I don't want to rush you, Frank, but how much longer?"
Jill had appeared in the cockpit doorway and her voice
was rigid. "Whatever is out there is within sight--less
than ten miles away--and it is definitely not friendly!"
She started as Tanya appeared beside her.
"There's no word for how unfriendly this thing is," Tanya
stressed. Her face was white and she croaked the words
out more than spoke them.
Frank glanced at his LED readouts. "24,000 pounds in the
left wing, 23,000 pounds in the right, 8000 in the center
tank. It's going faster now that we don't have to pump
the fuel over-wing to the other side but we still have a
ways to go." He stared fixedly at his watch. "Twenty
minutes, no less."
"You can't cut that? Please say you can cut that!"
Frank shook his head. "We need seventy-thousand pounds at
least. Any less, and we'll come down smack in the middle
of the Mojave Desert." He turned back to the gauges. "Ten
more minutes to pump, ten to unhook, button up, and taxi
out. Then we're gone."
*
Catherine emerged from the apron level doorway into the
bright white light of the new and ever-accelerating day.
She took a step backwards. The sound was horrendous,
overwhelming. The ground, the air and even the sky seemed
to shake with it. For a moment, she stood frozen in her
tracks, big-eyed, shocked and confused.
Maybe, she thought, as a shaft of nearly-rational thought
speared her mind, maybe this is not such a good idea.
Maybe her gripe with David Twomy had somehow gotten
overblown in her mind and this calamitous noise and the
fear of the others were of more importance than she'd
originally admitted. Maybe what she really ought to be
worried about was getting back onto that plane!
Then she forgot her doubts. Because just beyond the
American Airlines 767, set down incongruously in the
margin of grass between the taxiway and the long north-
south runway, was a detached, three-story townhouse. It
appeared exactly as it had the last time she had seen it,
except the right-hand side was no longer connected to the
townhouse to the right, but open on all three levels.
Even the chain link fence bordering the townhouse was
there--it just stopped at the property's edge. From deep
within the townhouse, somehow coexisting with the
cacophony of the approaching langoliers, was the sound of
David's barking Rotweiler, Max.
And the front door stood invitingly open.
*
As the others argued in the cockpit about fuel levels and
minutes remaining, Jessica, alone in the back, choked out
a strangled plea.
"Run to him quickly, Catherine! He's waiting inside. You
must confront him now!"
*
Catherine stumbled out of the doorway, struck the base of
the fire extinguisher with her left foot, and hit the
concrete apron with a bone-jarring thud. She stayed there
a moment on her hands and knees, blinking and dazed, then
struggled back to her feet. She gave no thought to the
lacerations on her palms and knees--pain no longer
mattered. Only the townhouse mattered... and the person
inside.
Run to him, Catherine! Run around the plane! Run away
from the plane! Run to him now!
Catherine glanced dazedly at the encapsulated girl--she
now shown twice as brightly in the midday sun, like a
vision of the Virgin Mary herself--and then began to run.
She ran toward that brick-faced, nondescript townhouse, a
place where (spread that damn thing wider white bitch!)
relentless men and foolish women played regrettable
games. A place where thumping, wailing, pleading and
demanding brought about not only incredible sexual highs,
but ruinous scandal.
"I'm coming," she muttered through her shattered teeth as
her stride lengthened and grew stronger with every yard.
"I'm coming right now!"
*
The LED readout for the center tank began to slow when it
reached the 16,000 pound mark, and by the time it topped
18,500 it had almost stopped. Frank counted under his
breath as the numbers crawled slowly up to 18,782 and
stopped; he quickly flicked two switches, shutting off
the hydraulic pumps. The L-1011 had given up all that it
had to give: a little less than 57,000 pounds of jet-
fuel. It had to be enough.
"Come on!" he yelled, standing up. "We're uncoupling this
bird and getting the fuck out of here now!"
The approaching noise had now reached catastrophic
levels. The entire airplane shook. Mixed into the crunch-
rattle-crunch and the wound-out transmission screech were
the sounds of splintering concrete and the continuous,
dull whump of collapsing buildings. As Jill stood aside
to let Frank and Solomon pass by, she heard a series of
staccato, gun-like reports, followed by a deafening,
splintering crash. She knew instinctively that what she
had just heard was the collapse of the world-famous
curved roof and support columns of the main terminal
building.
"Catherine!" Elise screamed suddenly. "It's Catherine
Montes!"
Tanya and Jill followed on Frank and Solomon's heels
through First Class to the open forward hatch. They were
just in time to see Catherine running bandy-legged across
the taxiway to the median of freshly mowed grass beside
the runway.
"What's she doing?" Gregory exclaimed.
"Forget her!" Frank barked. "We're all out of time!"
Pointing at Gregory and Elise halfway down the ladder, he
yelled: "You two get the hell inside! Solomon? Go down
the ladder ahead of me and hold me while I uncouple the
hose."
Jill, backing away from the hatch to allow the others
free access, felt like a woman strapped naked to a bench
while a vengence-seeking and thoroughly enraged Super
Bowl-losing team tramped into the locker room at half
time.
Descending the steps two at a time, Solomon braced
himself against the rail with his leg as Frank had done
earlier and grabbed Frank's belt with both hands. Frank
leaned out and twisted the nozzle of the hose off the
coupling ring. Precious fuel spurted out.
"Come on, you mother-fucker!" he yelled as he struggled
to get the fuel-port door closed. The nozzle-ring clanged
loudly atop the L-1011's wing below, then snaked free and
dropped to the cement, where it clanged dully. Frank
finally got the fuel-port door slammed shut and yelled:
"Let's go!"
But Solomon did not move. He was frozen in place, staring
to the east. His eyes had grown to the size of silver
dollars and his jaw had dropped. His lips were drawn back
over his teeth, making him look like a freshly unearthed
mummy.
Swiveling his head in that direction, Frank mimicked
Solomon's expression exactly as the langoliers finally
entered stage left.
*
Catherine swung back the metal gate and stepped onto
David Twomy's front walk. She closed the gate cautiously
behind her. She need not have bothered--the thunderous
noise from the east swamped all other sounds. Casting a
series of swift glances around her--why were the others
standing like dummies on the ladder, staring open-mouthed
toward the east?--Catherine ventured down the walk.
"I'm here," she said softly, mounting the three steps of
the concrete stoop. The mahogany-veneered front door
stood open, and reaching out, she found the storm door
unlatched as well. She swung it open and stepped inside.
The noise outside vanished immediately. Suddenly she was
on a quiet, residential street in Georgetown.
"David? It's Catherine. Are you here?" Her words echoed
softly throughout the luxuriously appointed townhouse.
A highly respected lobbyist for the timber industry,
David Twomy had first wooed Catherine three months
before, over cocktails and shrimp scampi at Martin's of
Georgetown. He then convinced her--as though she had
needed convincing--to accompany him back to his digs
(spread that damn thing wider white bitch!) for the main
course. For sixteen wonderful and incredibly painful
hours, she had endured the cuisine of his secret room
downstairs, finding hitherto unthought of uses for her
asshole, vagina and mouth. Hobbling out to the taxi the
following morning for the ride home to Capitol Hill, she
had prayed not to leak all over the vinyl seat. Her
bottom had remained closed, but only because of the butt
plug she wore. David had insisted she wear it.
"Come out, come out, where ever you are," she cooed.
Raising her right hand, she discovered in it a chrome-
plated Smith & Wesson 44 Magnum... Dirty Harry's gun.
Pulling back the hammer with a loud snick-snick, she
sighted along the barrel and targeted a lamp. It
disintegrated in an eruption of shards and dust as the
pistol went WHOOM! throwing back Catherine's hand. She
exploded in laughter.
"David! David, come out and take your medicine!" she
yelled, exploding another lamp.
Suddenly, Max the Rotweiler--he was in the basement, of
that Catherine was sure--came to angry life, barking and
snarling and thudding heavily against a wooden door.
Grinning, Catherine cocked the gun and lofted it before
her in both hands, striding purposefully toward the
staircase leading both upstairs and down. The closer she
got to the landing the louder the snarling grew.
"All right, David!" she screamed. "If you're not man
enough to come out and face me, then let's see how Mr.Max
likes a little attention!"
Starting down the stairs, Catherine caught a flicker of
movement out of the corner of her right eye and spun
about. She stumbled and the gun went off, blowing a
baseball-sized hole into the soffit above her head.
Gypsum dust and splintered wood rained down on her hands
and forearms and she angrily shook it off. Three shots
gone, only three remaining. She cocked the pistol again
and reentered the living room.
"David, you mother-fucker! Come out and face me like a
man!"
Suddenly he was there, naked and imposing as a bear. His
enormous cock, long as a forearm and as wide across as a
fist, rocked with his roaring laughter.
"Why are you laughing!" she screamed.
His laughter came so hard and so loud that it made the
flooring shudder beneath her feet and the furniture and
belongings around her rattle and dance. Dust showered
lightly down from the ceiling and in all the walls, nail
heads popped.
Centering the gun on his chest, Catherine snarled: "You
posted those mother-fucking pictures!"
Slowly, reluctantly, David Twomy stopped his laughter. He
said in a low, booming voice: "Of course I did,
Catherine. That was the idea."
"To ruin me?" she said incredulously. "To destroy my
whole life?"
"You had no life."
The Smith & Wesson leapt in her hands, opening a dime-
sized hole in David Twomy's chest. Blood and viscera
exploded from his other side, scaling the furniture and
the wall behind him. He seemed not to notice.
"Two to go," he taunted.
Enraged, Catherine raised the gun and centered it right
between his eyes. Her own eyes narrowed. "Laugh about
this," she murmured and suddenly lowered her sights.
Twomy's expression changed from hilarity to alarm as the
muzzle flashed and his penis exploded in a spray of red
and pink. The shot vaporized his testicles as well,
opening an almost comical-looking trench between his
legs, a trench filled with blood; he stood emasculated,
shocked and confused. It was Catherine's turn to laugh.
"How do you like that!" she screamed joyfully into his
shocked face. "Think you can screw with Catherine Montes?
Think you can get one over on me?"
She was about to go on, to really elaborate on this
question, to really elucidate her feelings, when she was
stopped by the sound. Suddenly, the house was no longer
on a quiet residential street, but dropped right in the
middle of a giant, malfunctioning machine. A machine that
would chew her into itty-bitty pieces of gruel with its
dry hungry teeth and spit out her bones.
Suddenly Catherine felt a deep need to raise the chrome-
plated revolver to her right temple and pull the trigger,
but when she raised her hand, the revolver was gone. So
was the townhouse. So was Max the Rotweiler downstairs
and his incessant barking. So was David Twomy.
"Where am I?" she asked in a small, perplexed voice. She
looked around and saw the 767 just to her right, the
partially demolished terminal building beyond, the huge
outpouring of dust and debris in the air, and suddenly
she understood.
The langoliers had returned.
The langoliers had returned for her.
The langoliers had returned for the entire fucking world!
Catherine Montes began to scream.
*
Jill could see them, but could not understand what it was
she was seeing. In some strange way they seemed to defy
seeing, in the same way air seemed to defy your sense of
touch. She felt her frantic, over-stressed mind battling
to change the incoming information, to make the shapes
which had begun to appear at the near end of Runway 19L
into something its gray matter could comprehend.
Are they mechanical prunes? her embattled mind asked.
Could they be mechanical prunes?
As insane as the idea sounded, something actually seemed
to click in the center of her head and the forms took on
a more solid appearance, becoming not just prunes, but
prunes with three jaws and chainsaw teeth.
At first there were only the two shapes, one black, the
other a dark, shoe-leather brown. (Male and female! her
frantic mind insisted.) They roared across the grass at
the end of the runway, crisscrossing madly, leaving deep
swaths of blackness behind them. Only they were not
cutting just the grass, her mind screamed... No! They
were devouring the grass and everything that lay beneath
it! Everywhere they darted they left behind a ten-foot
wide swath of terrible, perfect blackness, a blackness
that was both empty, and yet somehow full of... what?
Her mind refused to put forth an answer to that.
Suddenly, the black object swerved and raced erratically
across the white concrete at the end of the runway and
onto the taxiway beside it, followed moments later by its
mate. Where they went they left the same eerie black
tracks of nothingness.
No, her mind reluctantly denied. Not nothingness. You
know what that blackness is. It's the opposite of
nothing--massless, formless energy! Energy in its most
primitive state. Bound where it was by some terrible
force until what? Until its needed again, for some new
use?
As destructive as their passage was, there was something
even more malignantly destructive about their behavior.
They crisscrossed each other's paths with an almost
gleeful abandon, leaving a series of wavery black X's on
the taxiway. Then they leapt high in the air, did an
exuberant, crisscrossing maneuver there, and then dove
straight into the earth, leaving behind twin black holes.
They reemerged moments later fifty feet further up the
taxiway and raced straight for the plane.
As they did, Frank screamed and Solomon screamed beside
him. Faces lurked beneath the surfaces of the racing
monstrous forms--alien faces. They shimmered and twitched
and wavered like faces made of glowing swamp-gas. The
eyes were only rudimentary indentations but the mouths
were huge: three giant triangular flaps, lined with
gnashing, blurring teeth. As the langoliers advanced they
rotated freely in the air, the faces within seeming to
rotate in the opposite direction, always maintaining an
upright position. They ate as they came, rolling up ten-
foot strips of the world.
A Lufthansa 747-400 sat parked on the taxiway at the east
end of the concourse. The langoliers veered off and
pounced upon it, high-speed teeth whirring and crunching
and bulging out of their convoluted bodies. They went
through it without pause. One of them burrowed a path
directly through the fuselage, twenty feet behind the
wings. The aircraft shuddered and shifted slightly to its
left, then settled back again. A moment later the
langolier returned and took a second mouthful out of the
plane, leaving a perfect figure eight where the holes
overlapped. Debris rained down inside the body of the
aircraft and then, shorn of most of its interior
structure, the fuselage simply crumpled and the plane's
tail section fell to the ground, where it rocked slowly
back and forth.
The other langolier--the black male, Jill's mind
insisted--leaped high in the air, disappeared for a
moment behind the 747's thick midsection, then blasted
straight through, leaving a metal-ringed hole through the
center of the wing. Aviation fuel sprayed out in a dull
amber flood, splashing onto the concrete below. The two
langoliers then struck the ground together, bounced as if
on springs, crisscrossed again in mid-air--Jill would
swear they'd have high-fived had they only had hands--and
raced on toward the 767. Just as they reached the edge of
the tarmac however, they paused, rotating uncertainly in
place for a moment, looking like giant hovering bees.
Then they turned and zipped off in a new direction.
Zipped off in the direction of Catherine Montes, who
stood watching them and screaming into the white day.
With a huge effort, Jill snapped the paralysis which held
her. "We have to go!" she screamed.
Frank reacted as though stung by a bee and elbowed
Solomon, who was still frozen below him. "Come on!" he
yelled.
Solomon didn't move and Frank drove his elbow back harder
this time, connecting solidly with Solomon's forehead.
"Come on, godammit! Move your ass! We're getting out of
here!"
Down at the end on the runway, more black and brown
prunes had appeared. They darted, danced and circled...
and then raced directly toward the 767.
*
You can't get away from them, her mother had said,
because of their legs. Their fast little legs.
Catherine tried, nevertheless.
She turned and ran screaming for the airplane, waving her
arms and casting horrified, grimacing looks behind her as
she did. Her heels clattering on the pavement only slowed
her down and she kicked them off. Ahead of her, the 767
was again cycling up, both engines bellowing heat. The
movable ladder had been shoved aside, but the hatch
remained open. It was ringed by horrified, watching
faces.
No, Catherine, her mother laughed. You may THINK you're
running, but you're not. You know what you're really
doing don't you--you are SCAMPERING!
Behind her the male and female langoliers sped up,
closing the gap with effortless, joyful speed. They
crisscrossed twice in the concrete apron, leaving jagged
lines of blackness behind. They rolled after Catherine
several feet apart, creating what looked like giant,
negative ski-tracks in the white pavement. They caught up
with her twenty feet from the movable ramp, crisscrossed
directly before her, and Catherine barely halted in time.
She stood wind-milling at the edge of blackness, just
millimeters from death.
Understanding there was no way across the ten-foot void,
Catherine spun on her heel and headed for the open
doorway in the mid-field concourse. If she could draw
them away, get them headed toward the long structure
instead of toward the airplane, get them on her right,
then maybe she could backtrack to her left and get to the
ramp unimpeded. The others would let her on. The others
would surely let her on! After all, she was human!
But even as she argued this point in her mind, the black
male (the black male, of course!) zig-zagged across her
path and her feet were gone. At one moment her briskly
scampering feet were there, the next, Catherine was three
inches shorter and scampering on the stumps of her
calves. There was no blood; the wounds were cauterized
instantly in the langoliers' scorching passage. And as
the first needles of pain began to sizzle up her legs,
the black langolier banked tightly to its right and came
rolling back, rolling up the pavement in a beeline for
Catherine's pistoning legs. And where its inbound-trail
crossed its out-bound trail, a crescent of cement was
created, bordered in blackness, like a depiction of the
moon in an outhouse eave. Only this crescent began to
sink. Not into the earth--for there appeared to be no
earth beneath the surface--but into nowhere at all.
Instead of gobbling her up whole, at the last possible
instant the black langolier swerved left, clipping
Catherine off at the knees She came down hard, still
trying to run, sprawling on her chest and her face. She
stared at the concrete, stunned.
Aboard the airplane, turning her eyes away from the
horrible tableau, Jill muttered, "No... no more... no
more," as Tanya put her arms around her and held her
tight. Her own eyes, shell-shocked into pop-eyed
wideness, couldn't leave the visage beheld through the
open doorway. She watched in horrid fascination as
Catherine flipped over onto her back and screamed, "No!"
at the black langolier rotating above her.
In the half-instant before her death, Catherine saw in
the machine blur of its gnashing teeth, the robust
vitality of its leering grin, the shifting, glimmering,
wavering of its hideous face that it was not some strange
space alien at all, but her own David Twomy, bent on
revenge.
Her final thought before the motorized teeth closed in
and ripped her apart was: You can't do this to me! I'm a
United States senator!
Chapter 15
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
2:10 P.M. PDT (3:42 P.M. EDT)
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
Dulles International Airport,
Washington, D.C.
Scores of the ravenous prunes had now appeared, and Jill
understood that soon there would be hundreds, thousands,
millions, billions of the things. She clung to the galley
partition and watched through the open forward hatch as
Frank wound up the engines and pulled the 767 away from
the ladder and the wing of the United Airlines jet. She
watched as great looping helix's of blackness
crisscrossed the end of Runway 19L, heading for the mid-
field concourse, then tracked suddenly right, converging
on the spot where Catherine Montes had died.
I guess they don't get live meat very often, she thought,
and almost threw up. Then she did throw up, swinging
around in time to do it into the galley sink.
"The hatch!" Frank yelled from the cockpit. "Somebody get
the fucking hatch!"
Tanya ran back and slammed the door and dogged it shut.
Then she grabbed Jill and the two of them began to
stagger down the aisle, swaying from side to side like
two drunks clinging together for support. Flopping down
side by side in the center row, they belted themselves
in, then faced each other like undying lovers. Tanya's
eyes seemed to fill her entire face; her mouth moved
wordlessly. She put his arms around Jill and Jill put
hers around Tanya and they buried their faces into the
hollows where their necks and their shoulders met. They
cried together in abject horror.
*
In the cockpit, Frank locked the nose wheel fully to the
right, caught the first taxiway with perhaps a foot to
spare, circled the airplane in a tight, 360 degree loop
around the grassy island on which Catherine Montes had
played out her last scenario before a crowd, then chocked
the throttles fully open; the 767 went charging west down
the apron at a suicidal rate of speed.
Their only hope now lay in Runway 30, which took off to
the west; the entire eastern edge of the airport was now
black with the invading prunes and the end of Runway 19L
had completely disappeared. The world beyond it was
almost gone and in that direction, the blue unclouded sky
now arched down over a world of scrawled black lines,
toppling buildings and fallen over trees.
As the plane neared the end of the apron, Frank throttled
back and grabbed the microphone and shouted: "Belt in!
Belt in! If you're not belted in, hold on to something!"
He braked marginally, then slewed the 767 ninety degrees
onto the shared taxiway for Runways 30 and 19R, making
the tires squeal and burn. The right wing dipped
perilously low, and he felt the hydraulics on the right
main gear bottom out. He prayed that they were not
damaged. Then the plane righted itself and he charged
south along the taxiway toward the end of Runway 30 and
safety.
Back in the main cabin, Jill saw something out the port-
side windows which made her mind quail: huge sections of
the world which lay to the east of the airport, huge
irregular pieces of reality itself, were sinking into the
void like floundering ocean liners, tipping up whatever
end was lighter, slipping away and leaving big senseless
chunks of emptiness behind.
They are eating the world, her shocked mind thought. They
are eating the world alive.
Then the aircraft dipped hard to the left and Flight 74
screeched through another ninety degree turn and was
pointed west again, with Runway 30 lying open and long
and deserted before it.
*
First, when the 767 careened onto the shared taxiway,
then again when it swerved onto Runway 30, overhead
compartments had burst open, spewing carry-on luggage
across the cabin. Elise, who hadn't had time to fasten
her seat belt, was thrown across Gregory's lap on the
first turn, in an almost perfect spanking position. If
Gregory noticed his lapful of girl or the laptop computer
case--obviously still full--ricocheting off the seat back
directly before him, he didn't show it. His attention was
glued to the windows to his left, through which could be
seen hundreds--no, thousands!--of the malignant speeding
shapes. They rushed across Runway 19L and the taxiway
beside it and onto the apron where a giant well of
blackness had opened up where Catherine Montes had died.
"They're being drawn there," he muttered to himself, as
the aircraft made its second, wildly careening turn onto
Runway 30. His voice sounded awed. "Or to where Catherine
was. If she hadn't come out of the terminal when she did-
-" he unknowingly put his hand on Elise's slim rear end
"--the things would have gotten us instead. The plane,
us, everything."
Elise had struggled almost into an upright position when
a duffel-bag, balanced precariously on the edge of the
overhead bin above, came down on her back. "Oof!" she
went as the blow knocked her back over Gregory's lap,
then, "Gregory! Help me up!"
Gregory picked the bag up off of Elise's back and pitched
it absently into the aisle. He helped her sit up. He was
now watching the langolier's erratic behavior through the
window to his right and shaking his head.
Behind them, Solomon Howell spoke in a trembling,
horrified voice. "Now we know, don't we?"
"What? What do we know?" Gregory demanded.
"Why, what happens when you fuck up a perfectly good
world. It gets them, these magic fix-it-uppers, these
time-keepers of eternity. They clean up our mess in the
most efficient way... by eating it!"
Jill thought this wasn't exactly true, but she wasn't
bent on arguing.
"My guess is they get used exclusively in the past,"
Solomon said, "when today becomes yesterday, when the
timeframe we normally inhabit is used up and left
behind... dead and empty and deserted. They get released
into it, to button things up, to recycle the materials
into something suitable for later use. Energy, maybe, or
plasma."
So he does understand, Jill distractedly thought. She was
looking out the window again, something her cerebral
cortex said not to do, but her cerebellum insisted upon.
"Being set loose here, in a perfectly new world," Solomon
mused, "that must be a real treat for these things."
"Catherine knew about them," Jessica said in a low,
dreaming voice. "Catherine says they are the langoliers."
Then the jet engines cycled up to full power and the
plane charged down Runway 30 for the open air.
*
Out his cockpit window, Frank watched two of the buzz-saw
prunes (only he saw them as something different than
Jill--compact car-sized globes shaped exactly like that
old Pac-Man game piece--wonka-wonka-wonka!) bore though
the grass to his right and zip across the runway ahead of
him. It was too late to stop and the tracks were much too
wide to bridge with his tires. Knowing his chances were
50/50 at best, Frank dragged back on the wheel and lifted
the 767's nose wheel into the air. As physics demanded,
the rest of the aircraft followed but its speed was too
low and a stall immediately set in; the jet came back
down hard, right gear first, shuddering like a minor
earthquake as the other gear touched down and then the
nose wheel. The plane skidded hard to the left and then
to the right, and it took every ounce of his skill to get
it righted again. In the main cabin behind him, everyone
screamed.
"Sorry! Sorry! I'm sorry!" he yelled as he jammed the
throttles against the stops. They did not move--the
engines had all the fuel he could muster. As the ground-
speed indicator rose toward V2, the commit point, he
prayed in a manic, silent whisper: "Hail Mary full of
Grace... Hail Mary, full of Grace... Hail Mary full of
Grace... " over and over again.
And watched two more langoliers bearing in from the
right.
*
Still resisting her cerebral cortex, Jill leaned over
Tanya to look out the window. She watched as the mid-
field concourse, already jagged and collapsing on the
eastern end, was buzz-sawed to death by a thousand
marauding shapes. Huge and small sections alike, left
tottering on their meager supports by the chainsaw teeth,
crashed inward into the concourse or outward onto the
tarmac--or were buzz sawed themselves into oblivion where
they tottered. Dust billowed everywhere and everywhere,
it seemed, that the passengers of flight 74 had once
stood, the langoliers attacked with preferential glee.
Solomon's right, she thought. Getting set loose here
really is a treat for these things, like a bunch of inner
city kids set loose in a candy factory. And our presence
here is just icing on the cake.
As more and more of the structure was cut away, the
ground beneath the remainder became riddled with jagged
black lines, until nothing was left to support it. Taking
a sizable section of as-yet untouched apron with it, the
remaining end of the building reared up in the air,
corkscrewed slowly clockwise, and disappeared into the
meaningless chasm like the doomed Titanic. Jill saw, or
imagined she saw, waves of darkness boil up around the
descending mass, and then wash up over the edge of the
concrete apron after its passing. A moaning, incoherent
whisper escaped her throat and she sat back. No more, her
tortured mind ordered. No fucking more! Then Elise Gallo
screamed.
A pair of buzzsaws were speeding along next to the 767,
chewing up the edge of the runway. Suddenly one jagged to
the left and disappeared beneath the plane, only to
reappear seconds later.
There was terrific bump as the right wheels hit something
jagged and hobbled over it.
"Did it get us?" Elise shouted. "Did it get us?"
No one answered her. Their pale, terrified faces stared
straight ahead or out the windows, depending upon their
level of fright. Terrified almost beyond belief, Jill
fought the movement of her eyes as they scanned sideways
across the cabin back out the windows, muttering, "No,
stupid, no!" as her hands clamped painfully to the
armrests. Scenery rushed by in a gray-green blur and then
suddenly there was a pair of the langoliers abreast the
aircraft, matching its speed, looking in through the oval
windows. One was black and the other was shoe-leather
brown. Though it was impossible to tell one pair of
langoliers from the other, Jill understood that these
were the same two langoliers she had originally seen. And
she also understood that, even as she started to scream
and try to claw her way out of the seat and away from the
gnashing, whirring teeth, that the langoliers were
letting them go.
The langoliers were letting them go.
In the cockpit, Frank screamed in terrified triumph as
the last red light turned green on his board and hauled
back on the yoke and the 767 was airborne again.
Chapter 16
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
2:18 P.M. PDT (5:18 P.M. EDT)
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
Above Washington, D.C.
The plane climbed impossibly steep, shaking loose the
jumbled remainders of the lost passengers of Flight 74.
Luggage, watches, handbags and wallets, loose change by
the score went cascading down the isles and beneath the
open-bottomed seats in a minor landslide. A Coca-cola
can, spewing brown and bubbling liquid, bounced off
Jill's right foot, soaking her ankle, and continued down
the inclined deck until hitting the back-cabin divider.
Jill felt neither the impact nor the wetness on her
ankle. She was too busy praying.
"Are we up?" Elise frantically cried. "Did we get up?"
"Yes!" Tanya got out through her ground together teeth.
"Now shut the fuck up!"
The plane suddenly leveled off then took a hard right
turn, bringing the ground into view and again, Jill's
eyes were forced out the windows. She stared down
incredulously at the airport... or where the airport had
been. The main terminal and the mid-field concourse were
completely gone, and most of the hangers and ancillary
buildings. A growing abyss of darkness expanded westward
beneath Flight 74, an eternal chasm that stretched off to
the east with no apparent end.
"Oh dear Jesus," Jill moaned, and put her hands over her
eyes. Tanya took her head and buried it against her neck,
cooing soft reassurances into her ear, while beneath
them, thousands of black lines raced left and right, this
way and that, parallel and crisscrossing each other as
huge sections of ground--farmland, subdivisions,
industrial parks and shopping centers--fell away into the
inky-black void. On the other side of the aisle, Elise
slammed down the window-shade beside Gregory's head with
a loud bang and yelling, "Don't you open that again!
Don't you dare fucking open that again!" put her hands
over her face.
"Don't worry," Gregory said, and abruptly put his hands
over his own face as well.
*
Frank let the aircraft come around a full 360 degrees and
then headed west again. What he had seen out the cockpit
windows made him wish he had never looked out. What lay
east of the airport--only there is no airport, his
shocked mind remembered--was nothing. Nothing at all. No
Washington, D.C., no Potomac River, no Chesapeake Bay.
Only a titanic ocean of inky-blackness running in an
unbroken sweep from horizon to horizon, north to south.
And spreading rapidly west.
The airport was gone, the city was gone, the earth itself
was gone.
This is what it must be like to fly an airplane after
death, he thought... a ghost pilot with ghost passengers
over a ghost-peopled world. He shuddered deeply and
clutched himself tightly across the chest with both arms.
Then he did something he had never done before while in
the cockpit of an airplane: for a moment he shut his
eyes. Shut them and willed them never to open again. Then
he made himself take the controls and fly the airplane,
because his responsibility was the same as it always had
been... the safety of the flying public.
All six of them.
*
The cloud cover had advanced to within a hundred miles to
the west and as he caught up with it, counting the
minutes until the hellish vision below was blotted out,
Frank kept his eyes and his attention focused entirely on
his instruments. He didn't look out. But in the final
moments before the 767 entered the clouds, he did look
back and saw the hills and woods and lakes which
stretched to the west of the airport, saw them being
ruthlessly sliced and diced by thousands of black spider
web lines. Huge and small swatches of reality slid
soundlessly into the void. And as they climbed into the
clouds and the world outside mercifully turned white,
Frank saw something else, something that cowed his mind
entirely... the destruction was not falling behind, as he
had supposed, but keeping pace, possibly even catching
up.
Possibly even catching up...
He closed his eyes again and let the autopilot take over
the plane.
*
There was almost no turbulence this time, for which Jill
was grateful. Five minutes after entering the clouds,
Flight 74 emerged into the bright-blue world which
resumed at 18,000 feet and went on forever. The six
remaining passengers looked around at each other
nervously, then at the speakers as Frank came on the
intercom.
"We're up," he said simply. "You all know what happens
now: we go back the way we came, and hope that whatever
doorway we came through is still there. If it is, we'll
try going back through it again.
"Our inbound flight took four and a half hours. Under
ordinary circumstances, the flight back should take
somewhat longer--six hours, perhaps--because of
prevailing winds. From what I can see, however, the wind
strength is less than a quarter of what it should be, so
I can't be more exact than that." He paused for a moment
and then added, "There's nothing moving up here but us
and I'm seriously considering altering our flight plan to
conserve fuel."
That was all Frank had to say and the intercom clicked
off.
*
A few minutes later, Tanya gave Jill a brief hug, then
unbuckled her seat belt and stood up. "I should go
forward for a while," she said. "See if Frank needs any
help. Want to come?"
Jill shook her head and nodded across the aisle at
Jessica. "I'll stay with her."
"There's nothing really you can do," Tanya said softly
"She's in God's hands now."
"I know that," Jill said, "but I want to stay."
Tanya combed her fingers gently through Jill's hair. "We
still have a dinner date for tonight?"
"Yes," Jill said, smiling. "Absolutely."
Tanya bent down and brushed a kiss lightly across her
lips. "Good," she said. "I can't wait." Then she went
forward and Jill pressed her fingers lightly against her
mouth, as if to hold the kiss there. Dinner with Tanya
Raum. Maybe with candles and a good bottle of wine. More
kisses afterward--real kisses, and so very much more. It
all seemed so unreal. And so unlikely ever to happen.
Unbuckling her own seat belt, Jill crossed the aisle and
put her hand on Jessica's forehead. The frightening heat
she had felt there before was gone; Jessica's skin was
now frighteningly cool.
I think we're loosing her, Solomon had said shortly
before they started their frantic effort to refuel the
plane. Now the words recurred to Jill and rang
sickeningly true.
"Don't you leave us, Jess," she whispered. "You hang in
there, girl. You fight this thing!"
Jessica took air in in pitiful little sips, her chest
barely rising and falling. The belt cinching down the
tablecloth pads sealed her wound, but also constricted
her breathing. Jill thought a moment about loosening the
belt, letting it back a notch, then decided that was a
bad idea. Better to breathe hard, she thought, than not
to breathe at all.
Did you really save us, Jess? Did you know that Catherine
Montes was our ticket out?
Brushing the girl's hair off her forehead, she remembered
her earlier thought that Jessica and Catherine were
mentally joined.
"You did, didn't you," she said. "You foresaw it somehow
and knew it was Catherine's life... or the rest of ours."
Or maybe, for ours, she thought. A sacrificial lamb.
She thought about this a time, and decided that, if it
was true, then this little girl, almost surely mortally
wounded, had made a dreadfully difficult decision.
For them all.
She leaned down and kissed each of Jessica's cool, now
motionless eyelids. Jessica's time was almost over.
*
Elise turned to Gregory, interlaced the fingers of her
right hand with those of his left, and asked: "What
happens if we get there and the time-rip is gone?"
Gregory looked out at the dazzlingly white cloud cover
below, then at the overarching blue sky above, and
answered as gently as he could: "I think you know the
answer to that."
Frowning numbly, she fumbled out her cigarettes, looked
at them with sudden distaste, then crunched the entire
pack in her hand. She dropped them onto the floor between
her feet and kicked the pack violently backward. "That!"
she said with surprising alacrity, "Is history!"
She paused, looking at Gregory with some embarrassment.
"I picked it up on the road."
"You don't have to explain," he said.
"I do to someone," she said, softly.
"Not to me. Not now." He smiled uncertainly. "Maybe when
we get back."
"If we get back."
They were silent a time.
"You know what?" Elise asked.
Gregory slowly shook his head. He seemed quiet content to
sit there and hold Elise's hand.
"If we can't find that hole again, I hope Frank doesn't
even try to land the plane. I hope he just picks out a
nice high mountain and crashes us into the top. Did you
see what happened to that crazy Catherine back there?"
She shook her head sadly. "I don't want that happening to
us."
Gregory released her hand and put his arm around her
shoulders. "It won't," he said bravely. "I promise you
that."
Elise laughed. "I'm holding you to that, big fellow."
Gregory broke into an embarrassed grin and Jill, watching
from across the aisle, would have sworn he had never been
complimented like that before by a girl. In fact, she
doubted if a girl had ever held his hand, much less
offered her mouth up for kissing as Elise so obviously
was.
"Are you going to kiss me?" Elise finally asked.
Red-faced, Gregory said: "Yes."
"Then you better go ahead. Because, like my friend
Bethany likes to say: The later it gets, the later it
gets."
Gregory bent down and tentatively placed his lips atop
hers. Elise rotated into his arms and took control and,
fighting the grin taking control of her face, Jill
thought that if Gregory had never been kissed before, he
was making up for it now.
*
Jill stuck her head into the cockpit doorway. Tanya was
sitting in the copilot's seat, leafing through the
Airman's Information Manual with single minded intensity.
She was glad that Tanya had joined Frank up front. She
suspected that after all that had taken place on the
ground, Frank was in serious need of company. Announcing
her presence with a small clearing of the throat, she
asked Frank: "There's none of those things up here, I
hope?"
Frank thought it over for a moment. "Judging from what we
saw back at Dulles, I doubt it. They seemed pretty much
confined to the ground. Or bound to it. Or whatever." He
shrugged. "All things considered, though... "
Jill sighed. "You're right, I guess. All bets are off."
She tried another line of thought. "What about this time-
rip of Solomon's? Think we can find it again?"
Again Frank shrugged.
Tanya, without looking up from the thick manual, though
smiling ironically, said: "I give us one in a thousand
odds."
Jill thought this over. After a moment, a radiant smile
spread across her face. "I'd say those odds are not so
bad at all. Not when you consider the alternative."
*
Forty-five minutes later, thinking about the strange
circumstances that had brought the eight survivors of
Flight 74 together--Elise on the run; Frank and herself,
opposite ends of another, more explainable mystery; Tanya
and Jessica, attempting to repair splintered
relationships that Jill could testify were probably
unrepairable; Solomon, on his way to a meeting to
determine the future of manned space flight after the
latest shuttle disaster; Gregory to his summer
internship, Catherine... well who knows what Catherine
had been up to--she looked over and found Jessica's eyes
upon her.
She reached out and gently squeezed one of the young
girl's hands. "Don't try to talk," she said quietly.
"Don't try to talk--just listen. We're in the air. We're
on our way back, and you're going to be all right--I
promise you that."
Jessica's hand tightened on hers, and after a moment, she
smiled weakly. "Liar."
Tears brimmed in Jillian's eyes.
"Don't worry," Jessica said. "I'm more all right than you
think."
Jill sniffed and wiped her nose. "I know you are, honey."
Jessica slowly shook her head. "You don't understand,"
she whispered. "I'm going to be all right."
"Jessica, you shouldn't--"
A sweet, almost angelic smile spread across Jessica's
lips. "While I was out," she whispered, "I saw
something... " she took a deep, shuddering breath, "...
something that made me not be afraid." Her voice, barely
audible as a whisper, became even softer. "I saw Jill. I
saw where it is that I'm going. It's a nice place, full
of bright white light and people who really want to see
me again. It was a wonderful place. My aunt Dana was
there--" she coughed, and small specks of blood flew from
her mouth "--and my Uncle Joe, and... " here her eyes
clouded over in sudden, uncertain wonder. "... even my
cousin Dinah was there, who isn't even dead."
Jill looked at the girl with her own uncertain wonder.
"Catherine is there too," Jessica said. Her hand let go
of Jill's and rose waveringly to touch her cheek. "She
wasn't such a bad person, you know. She was just--" She
coughed again and more small flecks of blood flew from
her mouth.
"Please, Jessica," Jill said. She had a sudden
directionless panic. If this girl should die, should she
be pulled away from them in this meaningless, abandoned
nonexistence, where was there for her soul to go?
"Please don't try to talk anymore."
Jessica's smile faded and her eyes lost focus, looking
slightly away, as though she were listening to another,
more distant voice. Jill's heart began to accelerate as
fear that Jessica was slipping away gripped her. Then
Jessica looked back again. "You have to promise me
something," she said, not waiting for a reply, "Promise
you won't fall asleep."
"What?" Jill said through her tears.
But now Jessica was slipping away. Her beautiful blue
eyes lost focus again and began to close. The angelic
smile which had made Jill's heart want to break snuck
back onto her lips. She took in one of her tiny sips of
air, let it out, and simply didn't bother with the next.
Her hand went slack within Jill's.
"Please breathe, Jessica," Jill said. She stood up and
moved between the rows of seats, placing her hands above
the young girl's chest, agonized indecision wracking her
face. It was so unfair to have this girl die, after she
had probably just saved them. Yet, what good would it
accomplish to prolong her life by a few minutes or maybe
an hour, when in all likeliness, they all would die
anyway. That seemed so totally unfair.
Letting her hands fall to her sides, Jill looked numbly
around and found Elise and Gregory standing at the end of
the aisle. Tears coursed down the wayward heiress's
cheeks, and brimmed in Gregory's eyes. They all looked at
one another, then down at Jessica's peaceful face.
"Someone should say a prayer," Elise whispered.
Holding each others hands, the three bowed heads and by
undecreed consent, recited the Lord's Prayer. Then Jill
found a pair of folded up blue blankets in one of the
overhead compartments, and used them to cover Jessica's
unmoving form. Her hands shook badly and she fought back
stubborn sobs laying the hem over Jessica's face.
While I was gone I saw something that made me not be
afraid. I saw, Jill. I saw where it is that I'm going.
It's a nice place, full of bright white light and people
who really want to see me again. It was a wonderful
place.
Jill placed the palm of her hand on Jessica's shrouded
forehead and thought: Yes. I can live with that.
She left Jessica to dream.
*
American Airlines 74 flew west through the unchanging
day, marking time and distance only by their progress
over the peaks and valleys of the ocean of white below. A
little over three hours into the flight, the clouds below
them tapered off, and gave way to the Great Plains. It
lay below them in a silent roan-colored expanse of land.
"No sign of them here," Frank said. He did not have to
specify what he was talking about.
"No," Tanya agreed. "We seem to have outrun them."
But they had not. As Flight 74 crossed the Rockies, they
began to see the black lines below them again, thin as
threads from this height. They shot up and down the
rough, slabbed slopes and drew not-quite-meaningless
patterns in the blue-gray carpet of trees. As they
watched, two of the thin black lines split apart, raced
around a jagged, snow-tipped peak, met on the far side,
crossed, and raced down the other slope in diverging
directions. Behind them the entire top of the mountain
fell into itself, leaving something which looked like a
volcano with a vast dead caldera at its truncated top.
"No-no-no-no-no," Tanya muttered, and passed a quivering
hand over her brow.
As they crossed the Western Slope toward Utah, the sun
threw an unrelenting glare over a fragmented hellscape
that none of them could look at for long; one by one, the
passengers in the main cabin followed Elise's example and
pulled their window shades down.
*
Piece by jagged piece, Western Colorado and eastern Utah
fell into the pit of eternity. Frank was forced to look
at it. There were no shades in the cockpit. Below him and
ahead of him, mountains, buttes, mesas, and canyons one
by one ceased to exist as the crisscrossing langoliers
cut them adrift from the rotting fabric of this undead
world, cut them loose and sent them tumbling into sunless
endless gulfs of forever. There was no sound up here, and
somehow that was the most horrible thing of all. The land
below them disappeared as silently as dust-motes drifting
in the air.
Half an hour later the world below was gone; utterly and
finally gone. The deepening blue sky was a dome over a
cyclopean ocean of deepest, purest black. Frank felt his
sanity give a deep shudder and slide closer to the edge
of its own abyss. Elise's thought suddenly crossed his
mind; if push came to shove, if worst came to worst, he
could have put the 767 into a dive and crashed them into
a mountain peak, ending it for good and all. But now
there were no mountains to crash into.
Now there was no earth to crash into.
He turned deliberately back to his sheet of calculations,
working on them, referring frequently to the INS readout,
until certain that he had things right. Then he reached
for the switch that controlled the cabin intercom and
opened the circuit.
"Tanya? Can you come up front again?"
Tanya appeared in the cockpit doorway less than thirty
seconds later. Grimacing, she looked out through the
windshield.
"Everything's gone," she said dully.
"Yes. Everything."
"Jessica's gone as well, I'm afraid. Jill was with her at
the end, and she's taking it pretty hard. She liked Jess
a lot. So did I."
Frank nodded slowly. He was not surprised--the girl's
wound was the sort that demanded the immediate attention
of an emergency room, and even then the prognosis would
not be good--but it still made his heart ache. He
believed what Jill believed--that the girl was somehow
responsible for their continued survival. So, if her
death was an omen, it was one of the very worst sort.
"At least she's up here with us," he said.
"Yes."
"And Jill is okay?"
"More or less."
He was quiet a moment.
"You like her, don't you, Tanya?"
Tanya said. "I do, yes. I'm sure she's rather confused by
the situation--" she laughed bitterly "--as if I'm not,
but I think we'll be okay."
Frank nodded. "Well, if we get back, I wish you the best
of luck."
"Thank you." She sat down in the co-pilot's seat again.
"So what's up?"
"If Solomon's time-rip actually exists, and if it's still
in the same place, we've got to be getting close to it by
now. We need four eyes manning the search. You take the
starboard side and right center; I'll take port and left
center. If you see anything that looks like a time-rip,
yell out."
Tanya grinned. "Are we looking for a TV Star Trek variety
of time-rip, Frank? Or one of the big extravagant
Hollywood varieties?"
"Very funny," Frank said, a grin touching his lips. "I
don't have the slightest fucking idea what it's going to
look like, or even if we'll be able to see it at all. If
we can't, we're in a hell of a mess. If it's drifted to
one side, or if its altitude has changed... " He
shrugged.
"What about radar?"
Frank pointed to the color monitor before him. "Nothing,
as far as that can tell. But that's not surprising. If
the original crew had seen the thing on radar, they sure
as hell wouldn't have flown through it in the first
place."
"That's supposing they could see it at all," Tanya
pointed out gloomily. "You could be right. Maybe it's not
visible."
Frank shook his head. "That's not necessarily true. They
might not have seen it in time to avoid it. Jetliners
move pretty fast and crews don't spend the entire flight
watching out the windows for bogies. They don't have to;
that's what ATC is for. Thirty or thirty-five minutes
into the flight, the crew's major outbound tasks are
completed. The plane is up, it's out of L.A. airspace,
the anti-collision system is on and beeping every ninety
seconds to show it's working, the INS is telling the
autopilot what to do. From the look of the cockpit, the
pilot and co-pilot were breaking for coffee. The flight
attendants were getting ready to serve drinks to the
passengers, so none of them were up front to lend another
set of eyes."
"That's an extremely detailed scenario," Tanya said. "Are
you trying to convince me... or yourself?"
"At this point, I'll settle for convincing anyone at
all."
Tanya smiled and stepped to the starboard cockpit window.
"All my life," she said, "I've thought of New York when I
thought of places I would never want to visit." She
looked out the window, at the endless inky-void. "I was
so wrong about that."
Frank checked the INS and the charts again, and made a
small red circle on one of the charts; they were now on
the verge of entering the airspace that circle
represented. "Time to start looking," he said. "You
okay?"
"Yes," Tanya murmured. She had torn her eyes away from
the huge black socket below and was scanning the sky. "I
only wish I knew what I was looking for."
"I think you'll know it when you see it," Frank said. He
paused and then added, "If you see it."
*
Jill sat with her arms folded tightly across her chest,
as if she were cold. Part of her was cold, but this was
not a physical coldness. The chill was coming from her
head.
Something was wrong.
She did not know what it was, but something was
definitely wrong. Something was out of place... or
lost... or forgotten. Either a mistake had been made or
was going to be made. The feeling nagged at her like some
pain not quite localized enough to be identified. That
sense of wrongness would almost crystallize into
thought... and then it would skitter away again like some
small, not-quite-tame animal.
Something was wrong.
Or out of place. Or lost. Or forgotten.
Ahead of her, Gregory and Elise were head to head,
talking contentedly. Behind her, Solomon, who seemed to
have lapsed almost into a coma since leaving the ground,
was sitting with his eyes closed and his lips silently
moving. The beads of a rosary were clamped in one fist.
Across the aisle, Jessica lay peaceful and still beneath
the thin blue blankets, her golden-hued hair and her
right hand the only things visible. Jill wanted to cross
the aisle, take that hand in hers and gently stroke it.
Wrong. Something is wrong.
Easing up the shade beside her seat, Jill peeked out,
then slammed it down again. Looking at that would not aid
rational thought.
I must warn them, she thought. I have to.
But warn them of what?
Again it almost crossed into the plane of her focused
thoughts, then it slipped away, becoming just a shadow
among shadows... but one with shiny, feral eyes.
She abruptly unbuckled her seat belt and stood up.
Gregory looked around. "Where are you going, Jill?"
"Insane," Jill said grumpily and began to walk down the
aisle toward the tail of the aircraft.
*
Frank tore his eyes away from the sky long enough to take
a quick glance first at the INS readout and then at the
circle on his chart. They were approaching the far side
of the circle now. If the time-rip was still here, they
should see it soon. If they didn't, he supposed he would
have to take over the controls and circle them back for
another pass at a slightly different altitude and on a
slightly different heading. It would play hell on their
fuel situation, which was already tight, but since the
whole thing was probably hopeless anyway, it didn't
matter very--
"Frank?" Tanya's voice was unsteady. "Frank? I think I
see something."
*
Jill reached the rear of the airplane, made an abrupt
about-face, and started slowly back up the aisle. She
passed row after row of empty seats. She looked at the
objects that lay in them and on the floor in front of
them as she passed: purses... pairs of eyeglasses...
wristwatches... a pocket-watch... two semi-clear,
crescent-shaped pieces of silicone that she recognized as
breast-pads... dental fillings... wedding rings... .
Something is wrong.
Was that really so, or was it only her overworked mind
nagging fiercely over nothing. The mental equivalent of a
tired muscle which won't stop twitching?
Leave it, she advised himself, but she couldn't.
If something really is amiss, why can't you see it.
Didn't you read all those mystery novels as a teen and
peg most of them halfway through, often just turning to
the last few pages to prove yourself right? Weren't you
so sure of your cleverness and deductive abilities that
you even tried writing one of your own?
Jill snorted. What a disaster that had been. Hours spent
in front of her Gateway PC (before losing half the
abortive little monster and switching over to a Mac),
endlessly typing and retyping her pages, until it finally
dawned on her that she was not writing, but simply
"processing words."
The Sleeping Madonna she had meant to call it... "a
masterpiece of logic."
Jill came to a stop, her eyes widening. They fixed on the
port-side seat near the front of the cabin where Solomon
sat silently reciting his prayers. Seen from behind, he
could just as easily have been asleep. In fact, he did
look asleep.
What had Jessica said? Her last words before slipping off
into the great hereafter? You have to promise me
something, she had said. Promise you won't fall asleep.
Jill had of course thought that the young girl just
didn't want to be left alone, wanted Jill there with her
during her final moments. But had that been what she
really meant? Now Jill wondered.
Promise you won't fall asleep.
But we had been asleep, she thought. That's why we
survived.
Now, with the possible exception of Solomon, none of them
were asleep.
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
Her throat was locked. Terror sat on her chest like a
circus elephant. She tried again to scream and managed no
more than a breathless squeak.
They had all been asleep!
She opened her mouth once more to scream and once more
nothing came out.
*
"Holy Mother of God," Frank whispered.
The time-rip lay about ninety miles ahead, off to the
starboard side of the 767's nose by no more than seven or
eight degrees. If it had drifted, it had not drifted
much; Frank's guess was that the slight differential was
the result of minor navigational errors due to his having
changed course.
It was a lozenge-shaped hole in reality, but not a black
void. It cycled with a dim pink-purple light, like the
aurora borealis. A wide white ribbon of vapor was slowly
streaming either into or out of the shape which hung in
the sky. It looked like some strange, ethereal highway.
We can follow it right in, Frank thought excitedly. It's
better than an ILS beacon!
"Son of a bitch!" he yelled, smacking his palms against
the wheel grips.
"It must be two miles across," Tanya whispered. "My God,
Frank, how many other planes do you think went in."
"I don't know," Frank said, "but I'll bet you my ass and
a hole in the ground that we're the only one with a
chance at getting back."
He opened the intercom.
"Listen! We've found what we were looking for, gang!" His
voice crackled with triumph and relief. "I don't know
exactly what happens next, or how, or why, but we have
sighted what appears to be an extremely large cough drop
in the sky. I'm going to take us straight through the
middle of it. We'll find out what's on the other side
together. Right now I'd like you all to fasten your seat
belts and --"
That was when Jill Cooney came bolting madly up the
aisle, screaming at the top of her lungs: "No, Frank! No!
Turn around! We'll all die if you go through! Turn back!
For God's sake, you've got to turn back!"
Frank swung around in his seat and exchanged an open-
mouthed look with Tanya Raum.
Tanya unbuckled her belt and stood up. Her face was
distraught. "It's Jill," she said. "She must have had
some kind of... of... " She cursed vehemently under her
breath. "Anyway, go ahead. I'll take care of this."
"Okay," Frank said. His face reflected the same distress.
After all they'd been through, it was amazing everyone
hadn't cracked. "Just keep her away from the cockpit. I'd
hate to have her grab me at the wrong moment and send us
into the edge of that thing."
He turned off the autopilot and took control of the 767
himself. The floor tilted gently to the right as he
banked toward the long, glowing slot in the sky. It
seemed to slide across the windshields until it was
centered in front of the 767's nose. Now he could hear a
sound mixing with the drone of the jet engines--a deep
throbbing noise, like a huge diesel idling. As they
approached the river of vapor--it was flowing into the
hole, he now saw, not out of it--he began to pick up
flashes of color traveling within it: green, blue,
violet, red, candy pink. It's the last real color left in
this world, he thought.
Behind him, Jill sprinted through the first-class
section, up the narrow aisle which led to the service
area... and right into Tanya's waiting arms.
"Easy," Tanya soothed. "Everything's fine. We--"
"No!" Jill struggled wildly, pushing Tanya backwards
toward the open cockpit door. "You don't understand! He's
got to turn back! He's got to turn back before it's too
late!"
Tanya used their momentum to turn them ninety degrees to
the left. Although now backed against the door of the
First Class restroom, she kept tight hold of Jill's
biceps. "Calm down," she said in a low, urgent whisper.
"You'll get everyone else worked up!"
As the 767 entered the wide flow of vapor streaming into
the time-rip, it surged forward, seized as though by an
immensely powerful hand. Jill and Tanya both staggered
sideways, back into the narrow cockpit vestibule. The rip
lay dead ahead of the 767's nose now, growing rapidly.
We're going in, Jill thought frantically. God help us,
we're really going in. Steadying herself, she made the
words come out slow and crystal clear.
"Don't you understand? We were all asleep when we came
through the first time. We were asleep! If we go back
through awake... You've got to stop him!"
Tanya froze as what Jill was saying suddenly struck home.
Air rushed out of her lungs like someone had punched her
in the gut, then rushed back in. "Frank!" she shrieked.
"Frank, stop the plane! Turn back! Turn back!"
*
Frank had been staring into the rip, nearly hypnotized,
as they approached. There was no turbulence, but that
sense of tremendous power, of air rushing into the hole
like a mighty river, had increased. He looked down at his
instruments and saw the 767's airspeed was increasing
rapidly. Then Tanya began to shout, and a moment later
she and Jill were behind him, Tanya ricocheting off the
back of his chair in her desperation to get inside. She
grabbed frantically at the co-pilot's seat back and
stared open-mouthed at the rip as it swelled in front of
the jet's nose. The steady thrumming sound had become
Niagara Fall's thunder.
"Turn back, Frank, you have to turn back!"
Like a man forced to make a life-threatening decision on
no basis other than gut instinct, Frank hesitated one
moment longer, then grabbed the steering yoke and hauled
it hard over to port. Tanya was thrown across the cockpit
and into a bulkhead while Jill nose-dived into the floor.
They both hit with resounding thuds and shrieks of pain.
In the main cabin, the luggage which had fallen from the
overhead compartments when Frank swerved onto the runway
at IAD now flew once again, striking the curved walls and
thudding off the windows in a vicious hail. Elise
screamed and Gregory hugged her tight against his chest.
He narrowly missed getting his bell rung by an open
laptop computer winging its way across the cabin. Two
rows behind, Solomon jammed his eyes tighter, clutched
his rosary harder, and prayed faster as his seat tilted
away beneath him.
Now there was turbulence; Flight 74 became embroiled in a
deadly, choppy surf, a surfboard with wings, rocking and
twisting and thumping through the unsteady air. Frank's
hands were momentarily thrown off the controls and then
he grabbed them again. At the same time he opened the
throttles all the way to the chocks and the plane's
turbines responded with a deep snarl of power rarely
heard outside of the manufacturer's test floor. The
turbulence increased until Frank was forced to back off
the turn in order to save the aircraft. It slammed up and
down like a basketball under Michael Jordan's hand. For
one frightful moment the aircraft seemed to skid
sideways, down and up all at the same time, then rocked
up almost to the vertical on its port-side wing. From
somewhere came the deadly shriek of over-stressed metal.
Ahead of them, the hole continued to swell even as it
continued sliding off the starboard side. The turbulence
continued to increase as Frank drove the 767 across the
wide stream of vapor feeding into the rip. Then, after
one particularly vicious jolt, they came out of the
rapids and into smoother air. The time-rip disappeared to
starboard. They had missed it... barely.
Continuing to bank the plane, but at a less drastic
angle, Frank shouted, "Tanya! Jill!" without turning
around. "Are you all right?"
Tanya got slowly to her feet, holding her head. There was
a bright red line running diagonally across the middle of
her forehead, a trophy of her battle with the bulkhead.
She helped Jill up, who came erect holding her fingers
against her bloodied nose. Both were ashen and both asked
at the same time: "Did we miss it?"
"We missed it," Frank confirmed. He continued to bring
the aircraft around in a big, slow circle, babying the
controls. "And you're damned well going to tell me why we
missed it," he said severely, "after all we went through
to get here. And it better he good, or I'll break someone
else's nose."
Reaching for the intercom switch, he flipped it on and
then he flipped it back off again. Gregory, Elise and
Solomon all stood in the doorway. Gregory clutched Elise
tightly to his side; Solomon clutched his rosary.
"I got to tell you," Frank said to them all. "This damn
bird nearly came apart. A little more turbulence and I
think we would have. Even now, I'm not sure something
critical didn't fail. We were very lucky to get out of
that thing alive."
Blood had soaked the front of Jill's shirt and even
putting back her head couldn't stanch the flow. After
removing a bunch of wadded up tissues from her coat
pocket, Tanya guided Jill into the co-pilot's seat and
took up position behind her. Tilting back her head, she
held the tissue against Jill's nose.
"What the hell is this all about?" Frank demanded.
"I think I can explain," Solomon answered softly. It was
the first full sentence he'd spoken since finding the
rosary and sitting down with it nearly five hours before.
He made a visible effort to compose himself, then went on
in a firmer tone of voice. "We have been extremely
lucky... thanks to Jill we're all still alive." There was
a deep, shuddering groan from below decks and everyone
looked at their feet.
"So far, at least," he amended. "Anyway, we forgot the
most important detail of our transference. When we came
through the time-rip the first time, we were all asleep.
Everyone else was subtracted."
Frank jerked in his seat as though someone had smacked
him in the face. Elise and Gregory both groaned. Some
thirty miles distant, the faintly glowing time-rip had
reappeared in the sky, looking like some gigantic semi-
precious stone. As it again centered on the 767's nose,
it seemed to mock them.
"If we go through awake now," Solomon concluded
miserably. "Logic tells me that we also, will be
subtracted."
Frank ripped off his headset and flung it against the
console. The foam covering separated from the ear piece
and bounced back into his lap; he swept it away
viciously. Behind him, Elise said in a voice that seemed
to sum it all up: "We have to go to sleep? How do we do
that? I never felt less like sleeping in my whole life!"
Chapter 17
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
7:12 P.M. PDT (10:12 P.M. EDT)
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
At the Time-rip
Solomon took a step forward and gazed out through the
cockpit window in silent fascination. After a long moment
he said in a soft, awed voice: "So that's what it looks
like out there."
Frank nodded numbly and indicated the LED fuel readouts.
"I don't know what we do now," he said, "but if we're
going to try that hole, it has to be soon. We have enough
fuel for maybe an hour's flight time; after that... " He
shrugged. "Any ideas?"
Removing the tissues from her nose, Jill lowered her head
experimentally. The bleeding had stopped. She wiped
gingerly at her upper lip, cheeks and chin. "Yes," she
said. "As a matter of fact, I do. I have a bottle Xanax
in my purse and I'm sure if we look through the rest of
the purses and carry-on's out in the main cabin, we'll
find plenty more."
Everyone suddenly looked hopeful... until Tanya shook her
head.
"Why not?" Jill insisted.
"Because I've seen enough Xanax and other sedative
induced OD's to know better. A dose strong enough to
knock you out is almost always enough to kill you. We'd
need intense medical treatment to bring us back out
again. Besides, nothing on the market short of a true
narcotic works fast enough to be of use. Most sedatives
take a minimum of half an hour to forty-five minutes to
work. And a borderline dosage for Solomon, might be
lethal for someone like Elise. No," she said, slowly
shaking her head. "We have to find another way."
Jill looked out at the glowing lozenge shape in the sky.
Frank had locked Flight 74 into a two-minute turn and the
rip was on the verge of disappearing off the starboard
side. It would be back shortly... but they would be no
closer to it.
"This is unbelievable," she said. "After all we've been
through... to have survived the tip-rip and the
langoliers... to have actually found the damned thing...
" She took a deep, tremulous breath. "And now we can't go
back through it because we can't go to sleep? That is
bullshit!"
"We don't have forty-five minutes, anyway," Frank said
glumly. "If we're not through that thing in... " he
consulted his gauges. "... the next twenty minutes, you
can kiss it goodbye. I need thirty-five minutes to reach
LAX and that's cutting it hairline close. Otherwise, we
drop into the suburbs on approach. And that's supposing
no one is in our way. I'd hate to think--"
"What about other a-airports?" Gregory cut in, his voice
cracking with tension.
"None big enough to handle this bird. Las Vegas is
possible," he said, looking at the instruments again.
"But we'd have to turn back immediately after going
through and pray nothing was in our way. And we'd have to
do it in the next eight minutes. 'Vegas is farther off."
Everyone looked around, thoroughly depressed. Then Elise
said in a very low voice: "We're all forgetting
something. Maybe the most important thing of all."
They all turned. Elise, white and haggard, had folded her
arms across her chest as if she was cold and was cupping
her elbows in her hands.
"If we're all knocked out, who is going to fly the
plane?" she asked. "Who is going to land the plane in
L.A.?"
The others gaped at her wordlessly as, unnoticed, the
large semi-precious stone that was the time-rip glided
into view again.
"Well, we are fucked," Tanya said, laughing bitterly. "We
are totally, thoroughly fucked!"
She put back her head and began to laugh uproariously.
Jill, watching in alarm, had just begun to raise out of
the co-pilot's chair when Gregory said: "Maybe not."
"What?" Frank said over Tanya's raucous laughter.
"Maybe not," Gregory repeated. His pallor was ashen, but
his dark eyes were clear and intent. They were focused on
Frank. "I think you can put us to sleep," he said, "and I
think you can land us safely in L.A."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Frank asked
roughly.
"That," Gregory replied, pointing to a spot on the center
console. "I'm talking about that."
Looking down, Frank's eyes scanned across the myriad
dials, buttons and switches... and then he sat up bolt
upright. "Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!" He looked up
again with silver-dollar eyes.
"What does he mean, Frank?" Tanya asked, suddenly sober.
"He's got something--I can see it in your face. What?"
Frank ignored her. He looked steadily at the seventeen-
year-old wunderkind.
"That's fine for getting us through, yes. But what about
after, Gregory? What do I do to wake us up again. How do
I land the plane?"
"Will somebody explain please?" Jill pleaded. She had
gotten up and gone to Tanya, who put an arm around her
waist.
"Gregory's suggesting that Frank lower the cabin pressure
to knock us all out," Solomon said.
"Can you do that, Frank?" Tanya asked excitedly. "Would
it really work?"
Frank nodded in agreement. "I've investigated pilots--
charter pilots--who have done just that. A drunken
passenger or passengers get too rowdy, they sometimes
knock 'em out by lowering the cabin pressure. Alcohol
diminishes the blood's ability to transport oxygen. Lower
the pressure and the drunks go to sleep while everyone
else just gets a little bit sleepy. It's strictly against
the rules, but it happens all the time. To knock out
everyone--" he tapped on a silver dial. "--all I have to
do is lower it to half sea-level pressure... you're out
like a light."
"The trouble is getting the pressure back up again,"
Solomon pointed out. "After we pass through the rip."
Gregory opened his mouth, then closed it again. His look
of triumph had faded. Their window of opportunity had
also faded--to fourteen minutes.
"I think that leaves only one solution then," Solomon
said a dry, toneless voice. "In order for you to fly the
rest of us home, Frank, someone will have to die."
"What?" Jill demanded.
Frank sighed. "I'm afraid your probably right. Someone
has to stay awake to--"
"Turn the air pressure back up," Gregory finished for
him.
"Yes," Solomon confirmed.
They all were quiet a moment, looking at the growing
lozenge in the sky. Then in a low, thoughtful voice,
Tanya asked: "That would work though, Frank?"
"Yes," Frank said absently. "No reason why not." He
looked at the chronometer again. Eleven minutes
remaining. Eleven minutes to get across to the other side
of the rip. It would take almost that long to line the
airplane up, program the autopilot, and move them along
the forty-mile approach. "But who's going to do it? Do
the rest of you draw straws, or what?"
"No," Tanya said. Her voice was low and determined
sounding. "I'm going to do it."
"What!" Jill cried. Her eyes were wide and alarmed. "You?
Why should you do it?"
"Yeah!" Elise chimed in, although her confused blinking
indicated she wondered why she was speaking up.
Gregory glanced unhappily at Elise, then at Jill, and
then back at Tanya. Fear as intense and as personal as
any of them were feeling flashed across his face as he
opened his mouth and then closed it again without
speaking.
"Why you?" Jill asked again, urgently. "Why shouldn't we
draw straws? Why not Solomon? Or Gregory? Why not me?"
Tanya took her arm. "Come with me a moment," she said.
"Girls, there's not much time," Frank said. He tried to
keep his tone of voice even, but Jill could hear
desperation--perhaps even panic--bleeding through.
Tanya said. "Just start doing what you have to do to get
us through, Frank." She drew Jill through the cockpit
doorway. "We'll be right back."
Jill resisted for a moment, then allowed herself to be
guided out into the small galley alcove. She faced Tanya,
and in that moment, with her face less than four inches
from hers, she realized a dismal truth--this was the man
she had been hoping to find all her life, and it wasn't a
man at all, but another woman. In the space of their few
hours together, she had grown to love Tanya Raum. There
was nothing at all romantic about this discovery; it was
horrible.
"I think there might be something really strong between
you and me," Tanya said. "If you agree, please say so
okay, because there's no time left."
"Yes," Jill said. Her voice was dry and uneven. "I think
that's right."
"Then listen to me. Remember what Solomon said about
passing through the time-rip? That the plane had
continued on with the others as though nothing had ever
happened? That somewhere a plane is sitting on a runway
that's eight people short?"
"Yes, but--"
"Well, I think Solomon is right. To an extent, anyway. I
think being asleep caused us to have a little less grip
on reality then everybody else and that's why we're here.
We slipped through and because we did, because it wasn't
our turn to die, God was forced to make an allowance. He
duplicated the plane, gave us a replacement pilot and
said 'Now here, here's your second chance. Make the best
of it you can.' Well, we did and we didn't and it's lead
us to this."
"Okay, but--"
"Girls!" Frank called from the cockpit.
Tanya looked rapidly in that direction. "Coming!" she
shouted, and then looked back at Jill. "I'm not
absolutely sure of this, nobody can be really sure, but I
think--I'm betting--that as soon as you pass through the
rip, you'll be right back on the airplane. Like you had
never left. All of you. I don't know why, but I do.
Catherine was our right of passage away from the
langoliers and Jessica was our payment. It's like a
Stephen King novel--you pay for everything good with
something really awful. Well, we've paid and we're still
paying, Jill. No one gets away free."
Jill could only look at her, her lips trembling. She had
no idea of what to say. Her mind was tumbling helplessly.
Tanya's grip on her arms was very tight, but the grip of
her eyes was stronger.
"Listen very carefully," Tanya said. "When I boarded this
plane last night, it was not for the reason I told you. I
had no intention of trying to patch things up with
Claire... I meant to show up at her doorstep and kill
her."
"What?" Jill asked in a small, quivery voice.
"I've been obsessed, Jill... manic. Every waking minute
spent plotting how I would get even with her. I bought a
Smith and Wesson automatic from a pawn shop in Hollywood
and mailed it to a post office box I had rented in
Maryland. I meant to pick it up after we landed. I'd kill
Claire and her new girlfriend inside their own house,
then shoot myself lying on her bed. I even left a suicide
note on my dining room table at home, propped up against
the centerpiece, explaining why. No loose ends. All nice
and efficient. I brought an overnight bag with me so as
not to arouse suspicions." She paused, tears brimming her
eyes. She shook with a small shudder. When she spoke
again, her voice had a peculiar, measured emphasis.
"What's important is that I had changed my mind, Jill.
After boarding the plane, before boarding the plane... I
don't know. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I
finally did come to my senses and scrap the plan."
Jill slowly blinked her eyes and realized she was crying.
She wiped them with the side of her hand. She watched as
Tanya's face suddenly relaxed, her eyes growing soft.
"I need for you to believe me that I had changed my
mind," Tanya said. "Do you?"
"Yes," Jill said. "I do."
"Girls!" Frank warned from the cockpit. "We're heading
toward it!"
Tanya shot a glance toward the cockpit again, "Coming!"
she called. When she looked at Jill again, her eyes were
almost pleading.
"Claire lives in the village of Reston, west of D.C. Her
last name is Conyers. She's in the phone book under her
last name and her first initial. I want you to give her
something for me." She fished a small, sealed cream-
colored envelope out of her front pocket and pressed in
into Jill's hand. "She won't want to take this from you,
will probably order you right off her stoop when you say
my name, but it's important she gets this. Tell her that
I took it from her on the day she left. Tell her I'd
thought to send it to her a thousand times, but just
couldn't do it. You can even tell her what I'd meant to
do, only please, make her take this back. Will you do
that for me?"
Jill answered numbly: "Yes."
Tanya nodded and smiled wanly. "Good. Thank you so much."
Jill slowly nodded. She wanted badly to know what was in
her hand--it felt like a ring under the tips of her
fingers--but would not ask.
They stood looking at each other for a long moment, then
Tanya put her left hand against the nape of Jill's neck,
drew her mouth to hers, and kissed her long and deep.
When they finally ended the kiss, Jill kept her mouth
open and her eyes closed. Tanya was gone when she opened
them a moment later.
*
"What's this going to be like?" Elise asked, her face a
pasty white. "Will we feel like we're choking?"
"No," Frank said. He had gotten up to see if Tanya was
coming back; now, as Tanya reappeared with a very shaken
Jillian Cooney trailing behind her, he dropped back into
his seat. "You'll feel a little giddy... swimmy in the
head... then, nothing." He glanced at Tanya Raum. "Until
we all wake up."
Tanya stared stone-faced out the windshield at the
growing apparition. She muttered, "I hope we're right
about this thing and it doesn't work the opposite way in
the opposite direction." She looked around at Solomon.
"You don't think that's possible, do you?"
Solomon shrugged.
"If it is, you're gonna find yourself suddenly alone in a
pilotless airplane," Frank joked. He smiled
apologetically and inched the throttles forward slightly.
The rip lay dead ahead. "Anyway, you all take your seats
in back and Tanya, right up here beside me. I need to
show you what to do."
Aside from Tanya, who began to slip into the co-pilot's
seat, no one moved.
"Wait," Jill said. She had regained some of her
composure. Moving forward, she placed a hand on either of
Tanya's cheeks, drew her forward and kissed her deeply
again .
"Thank you," Tanya said, cracking an ironic smile. "I
needed that."
Helping Tanya belt in, Jill whispered, "I'll make sure
she gets this," her hand gently patting the front pocket
on her slacks. "Don't you worry."
"I won't. And thank you again."
Standing erect, Jill looked out at the rapidly
approaching time-rip.
"We all better go now," she said, softly. "Let you get to
work."
She herded the others out of the cockpit and back to the
first class cabin, where they all sat down in a tight
little group. Two minutes later, Frank opened the
intercom and said: "I'm starting to decrease pressure
now. Check your seat belts, and wish us luck."
They did so.
"Gregory?" Elise said in a small, fractured voice. "Would
you hold me, please?"
Gregory wrapped her up in his arms. His eyes were round
and starey and his teeth chattered loud enough to be
heard over the steady, droning rumble of the engines.
Behind them, Solomon was reciting his rosary again.
Across the aisle, Jill gripped the arms of her seat and
silently offered up prayers of her own. She could still
feel the warm print of Tanya's lips on her own. She
raised her head, looking at the overhead compartment,
waiting for the masks to fall. Twenty seconds later they
did, dropping down in almost perfect unity throughout the
cabin. The yellow plastic cup of her mask bounced
grazingly off her nose, and catching it, Jill suddenly
laughed.
I should be absolutely petrified, she thought. But I'm
not. It's like that old movie with Jeff Bridges in it,
the one where he survives a crash and no longer has fear.
I'll be okay. We'll be okay. We'll land this thing in
L.A. and I'll hop the first flight back east, gives this
ring or whatever it is to Claire Conyers, maybe try to
explain a little of what happened to her...
In the middle of that thought, her mind drifted away.
*
"You know... what to do?" Frank asked again. He spoke in
a dreamy, far off voice. Ahead of them, the time-rip was
once more swelling in the cockpit windows, spreading
across the sky. It was lit from inside by a fantastic
array of colors that coiled, swam, and then streamed away
into its queer inner depths.
"I know," Tanya said. Her words were muffled by the
oxygen mask she wore. Above the rubber seal, her eyes
were calm and clear. "You go on to sleep now, Frank. Let
me take care of this."
Frank was fading fast. He felt himself going... and yet
he hung on, staring at the vast fault in reality. It
seemed to be swelling toward the cockpit windows,
reaching for the plane. He felt that invisible hand again
seize the plane and draw it quickly forward. He suddenly
remembered Tanya's question of a few minutes before, when
she had wondered almost absentmindedly if the effect
might work in the opposite manner going back.
Asleep, he thought. We were asleep and passed through the
rip into the future. Slept our way into the future. What
if...
"Ta-Tanya," he struggled to get out. It now took a
tremendous effort to speak; he felt as if his mouth was a
hundred miles away from his brain. He reached out his
hand toward the cabin pressure controls but it seemed to
stretch away from him at the end of a cartoonishly long
arm. It overshot the controls and ended up on Tanya's
left thigh.
"Go to sleep," Tanya said, grasping his hand. "Don't
fight it, Frank, unless you want to join me in the great
hereafter. It won't be long now."
Frank struggled to meet her eyes. "Have to... have to...
"
Tanya smiled and gave Frank's hand a squeeze. "Don't you
worry about it, old man. I'll turn it back up before we
go through, I promise. Now just relax and let yourself
go."
Frank suddenly realized he had lost the thought, and then
he lost the memory of having lost the thought. His head
drifted back to a centered position, and he looked into
the rip again. So beautiful, he thought. A river of
gorgeous colors. For one fleeting moment the thought
resurfaced and he mumbled: "Oncoming traffic does not
stop."
Then darkness swallowed him.
*
Tanya was alone now, the only person awake on Flight 74.
She was not afraid, but an intense loneliness filled her.
The feeling wasn't a new one. She had been alone and
lonely since driving Claire away, her intense jealousy a
scalpel used to slash and tear at her lover until self-
preservation made Claire pack up and run.
She had given chase, of course, but had not found Claire
until a month before--or rather the detective she'd hired
had found her. Jealousy, rage and an intense feeling of
desertion had boiled over at the discovery that Claire
lived not just with another woman, but Tanya's own
sister; it had driven her to lengths she could scarcely
now believe. But she was better now--free--and her mind
was completely clear.
She prayed that her penitence was enough.
Ahead of her, the rip neared. She dropped her hand to the
rheostat which controlled the cabin pressure and clasped
it between her thumb and forefinger.
It's gorgeous, she thought. It seemed to her that the
colors that now blazed out of the rip were the antithesis
of everything they had experienced in the last few hours.
Colors ran across her cheeks and brow in a fountain-spray
of hues: jungle green was overthrown by lava orange; lava
orange was replaced by yellow-white tropical sunshine;
sunshine was supplanted by the chilly blue of northern
oceans. She looked down and was not surprised to see that
Frank Trafano's slumped, sleeping form was being consumed
by color, his form and features overthrown in an ever-
changing kaleidoscope of brightness. He had become a
fabulous ghost.
No, Tanya thought, looking at her own hands and arms
which were as colorless as clay. Frank's not the ghost; I
am.
The rip loomed.
Now the sound of the engines was lost entirely in a new
sound; the 767 seemed to be rushing through a wind tunnel
filled with feathers. Suddenly, directly ahead of the
airliner's nose, a vast nova of light exploded like a
heavenly fireworks; in it, Tanya saw colors no woman had
ever imagined. It did not just fill the time-rip; it
filled her mind, her nerves, her muscles, her very bones
in a gigantic, coruscating fire flash.
"Oh my God!" she cried, covering her eyes with the back
of her right hand. "It's so BEAUTIFUL!" And as Flight 74
entered the rip, she twisted the cabin-pressure rheostat,
bringing it back up to full.
A split-second later the 767 plunged through and Tanya
suddenly was no longer one woman, but two, overlapped in
twin realities like some sort of ethereal Siamese twins.
For a hairs breath of time she had two heads and two
torsos, four arms and as many legs. Her eyes opened in a
reaction of unimaginable pain, then she was gone, ripped
wholesale from whatever existence the other, sleeping
passengers of Flight 74 now found themselves in. There
was a small thump as the oxygen mask she had worn landed
on the cockpit floor between the seats, and that was all.
Tanya had vanished from this existence.
Chapter 18
Saturday, July 20, 2013,
7:49 P.M. PDT (10:49 P.M. EDT)
Aboard American Airlines Flight 74
Somewhere above
Southern California
The first things Frank was aware of were that his shirt
was wet and his head ached something fierce. He sat up
slowly in his seat, wincing at the bolt of pain in his
head. He tried to remember who he was, where he was, and
why he felt such a vast and urgent need to wake up. What
had he been doing that was so important?
The Black Box, his mind whispered. The Black Box has been
recovered and I need to get to D.C. to watch it opened.
No, that wasn't right. The flight data recorder was
waiting for him in Washington, D.C., but getting data
from the thing was far from certain and besides...
Wait.
He was looking through a cockpit window at a sky filled
with stars. He was not at the controls of one of the NTSB
Go-team's sleek silver Gulfstream jets, but a commercial
airliner trundling along under autopilot.
Suddenly it came roaring back to him--all of it--and he
sat up with a start, way too quickly. Blood flew from his
nose and splattered on the center console as his vision
momentarily doubled from the pain. He looked down and saw
the front of his shirt soaked with blood.
Of course, he thought. Depressurization does that. 1
should have warned the passengers before... How many
passengers do I have left, anyway?
He couldn't remember. His head was filled with sludge.
Looking at his fuel indicators, he saw that their
situation was rapidly approaching critical status--they
had less than eighteen hundred pounds remaining. He
checked the INS readouts and discovered they were exactly
where they should be, over the outer marker and
descending rapidly toward L.A. But at any moment they
might wander into someone else's airspace while the
someone else was still there.
Reaching for the radio dials, he suddenly remembered that
someone else had been sharing his airspace just before he
had passed out... who?
He fumbled, and it came to him. Tanya, of course. Tanya
Raum.
Tanya was gone.
He looked down between the seats and saw the dull gray
oxygen mask on the floor and suddenly he was sick all
over again. She had done the job--otherwise he wouldn't
be awake now--but at what cost?
He got on the radio, fast.
"LAX tower, this is American Airlines Flight--" He
stopped. What flight were they? He couldn't remember. The
fog was too heavy.
"Seventy-four," a dismal voice said from behind him.
It was Jill Cooney.
"Sit down and buckle up. I may have to put this plane
through some pretty rough maneuvers."
He spoke into his mike again.
"LAX tower, this is American Airlines Flight 74, I
repeat, seven-four. I am declaring an emergency. Clear
everything out of my way because I'm coming in on fumes.
Do you read me, tower? Over."
Jill began to laugh miserably beside him. "Right, Frank.
They read you all right." She began to laugh harder.
"They read you just fine!"
Frank wheeled around then, ignoring the flash of pain
through his head. "Look, goddammit!" he growled. "We
haven't got time for you to have a nervous breakdown! If
you can't get yourself together, go back to the cabin
with the others. We're breaking into heavy traffic
unannounced and we'll be damned lucky if we don't get
creamed."
Jill laughed again. "There's no traffic here!" she
shouted in a voice more than tinged with hysteria. "No
heavy traffic, no tower, no ground beam thingies to guide
us in! Don't you get it, Frank?" She pointed out and down
through the windshield. "Tanya died for nothing, and I'll
never get a chance to deliver her message!"
Frank looked out and felt his stomach crash to the soles
of his feet. For although they were now over the outlying
suburbs of Los Angeles, he saw nothing but darkness.
There was no one down there, no one at all.
Beside him, Jill burst into harsh, raging sobs of horror
and frustration.
*
A long red, white and blue passenger jet dropped
resolutely toward the ground thirty miles east of Los
Angeles International Airport. Along the fuselage, the
words AMERICAN AIRLINES were printed in bold red, white
and blue letters. The plane printed no shadow on the
deserted grid of streets as it passed above them; dawn
was still an eternity away. Below it, no car moved, no
streetlight glowed. Below it, all was silent and move-
less. Ahead of it, no runway lights flashed an inviting
glow.
The plane continued to slip down the chute toward L.A.
for five seconds longer, then nosed up and banked gently
left as the engines wound up to full thrust, Then,
increasing its angle of bank until it had come around one
hundred and eighty degrees, the plane flew back in the
direction from it had come. Inside the aircraft, a heated
argument raged.
"This is insane!" Elise insisted, straining for a look at
the ground through one of the port-side windows. "The
city is there! There have to be people!"
Gregory was one seat behind her, face pressed hard up
against a window of his own. "It's there all right," he
concurred in a voice wound tight as an overtaxed spring.
"But there's no more people down there than there were in
D.C." His voice cracked so badly it mangled his last
words, making them all but indecipherable.
Solomon was on one knee on the seat behind him, the hand
clutching his rosary on the top of Gregory's seat back.
His fingers worked one of the beads relentlessly while
his eyes blinked in consternation and disbelief.
The intercom clicked on.
"Everybody get up here," Frank ordered. "Now!"
The remaining three passengers of Flight 74 scrambled up
the port-side aisle through First Class and into the
small galley. Crowding into the cockpit door, all began
babbling at once.
"Shut up!" Frank yelled, loud enough to bring instant
silence. "We have no time!" He turned to Jill and
ordered: "Tell them what you just told me."
Jill turned in her seat. She was as white as a sheet of
high-grade copier paper and trembling uncontrollably. She
brought herself under control by digging her fingernails
into the palms of her hands.
"I was wrong," she said in a low, dull voice. Her tone
conveyed an absolute acceptance of guilt. "I thought
that, because we came through asleep the first time, that
getting back meant sleeping again."
Elise, Gregory and Solomon all nodded. Frank was too busy
with the controls and course alterations to listen. He
did however, remember his train of thought just prior to
slipping into unconsciousness and needed no further
convincing. This had forced his snap decision to reverse
course and head back toward the rip. The question was,
with barely fifteen hundred pounds of fuel remaining,
would they make it?
"But it should have worked!" Solomon insisted. "We were
all asleep. The plane should have transitioned back to
our own time and--"
Jill shook her head. "It transitioned yes, but through
our time, not into it."
"What?"
Gregory's face lost all color. "Oh, my God," he muttered,
looking from face to face. "Of course."
"Of course what?" Elise demanded. Her face was a
battlefield of mottled reds and grays. She had begun to
shiver and once again crossed her arms over her chest.
"We were asleep," Gregory whispered.
"Of course we were asleep!" she exploded. "What went
wrong?"
Jill, scanning the night sky ahead for some sight of the
time-rip--she saw nothing but stars and low lying scud
clouds--answered for him.
"The rip isn't really a rip at all, but a weakening in
the fabric of time. We discussed that in the restaurant
in D.C., remember? The spot's thinness let us pass
through because we had less of a grip on reality than our
wide-awake fellow passengers. They kept on going in our
own timeframe while we slipped through into the next. But
going back through the second time asleep weakened our
grip just as much, and we ended up flying right through
our reality and into the timeframe on the other side."
"Into the past," Gregory said, miserably.
"Into the past."
Solomon nodded solemnly while Elise groaned, "Oh God, not
again," and broke into tears.
"When Tanya and I talked, before she... " Jill's voice
momentarily faltered. "Before we flew through the rip,
she told me that she thought we all would reappear on the
plane again, at the exact instant we had disappeared.
That flying through the rip would reunite us with our own
world. I think she was right. Only wrong."
For a long time, no one said a thing. Then, as though
rousing himself from a long, deep sleep, Solomon said:
"That may happen, or it may not, but either way we're
running out of fuel. Do we have enough to make it back to
the rip, Frank, and then land again if we're all still
aboard?"
Frank shrugged. "Maybe." He tapped the INS readout.
"According to this, we're on the right heading and at the
right altitude for this distance out from the airport. If
we can find the damned thing and get through it right
away... "
Elise protested: "We saw it easily before, and that was
in bright light. It should be visible now for a hundred
miles!"
Frank gestured to the night sky ahead. "See anything?"
Elise searched the night sky and slowly shook her head.
"Well, no. But--"
"But nothing," Frank said, pointing into the distance.
"It should be right there, dead ahead. Eighty miles out.
But it's not."
Elise stubbornly searched the sky; Gregory wrapped her
waist comfortingly with one arm. Solomon, rubbing his
forehead thoughtfully, said: "In the previous timeframe,
our rip was a gateway into the present, funneling energy
into it from a brand new existence. The results were
spectacular. Here, the rip is in the past, sucking energy
into a useless void. The rip might very well appear as a
black hole, a dark spot against the background of stars.
It could very well could be mistaken for a cloud. We
might not realize what it was until too late."
"Fuck," Frank grumbled, adjusting the throttles. "That's
just fucking great." He started flipping switches and
turning knobs.
"What are you doing?" Gregory inquired.
"Shutting everything down not essential to flight."
Behind them, lights died out in the cabin, plunging the
aircraft into darkness. The only illumination came from
the instrument panels around them. Then he shut down even
the air conditioning and the outboard beacons... they
were now flying completely dark.
"Better pray nothing's out there," Gregory said. "For
real."
Ahead of them, the sky remained studded with pinpoints of
light. Nothing showed on the radar display. If there were
a "black hole" ahead, a thin spot in the fabric of time,
the radar couldn't detect it either.
"Warning!" a mechanically generated voice bellowed. "Fuel
levels are critically low! Fuel levels are critically
low! Land the aircraft at the first available airport or-
-"
"Shut the fuck up!" Frank shouted. He slammed the heel of
his hand against a set of switches, silencing the voice.
His color was high and his breathing was audible to all
the others. "Where is that fucking rip!"
They all searched the night sky, Jill straining her eyes
until she thought they'd pop from her head, but no time-
rip could be found.
"Fuck!" Frank cursed again, striking the yoke with his
fist. "We have to turn back. We'll circle around for
another pass at a slightly different altitude and on a
different heading. It'll play hell with our fuel, but we
can't make it back to L.A. now, regardless." He flipped
the autopilot off and took the controls. "Worse comes to
fucking worse, after going through I'll take us down and
land in the middle of the fucking desert. Route 15 should
be down there somewhere below us. It runs straight as an
arrow into Las Vegas. We can land on that if nowhere
else. Fuck it--we'll land somewhere!"
"We should have just landed in L.A.," Elise complained.
"Fueled ourselves up again and then taken off. There's no
langoliers here."
"Not yet," Solomon observed. "But you can bet they will
be, if this used-up timeframe is the one our reality
transitioned out of."
Elise, looking anxiously out the side window, said: "I
didn't think of that."
Jill thought it unbelievable that she hadn't thought of
it either. And if they did have to land in this used-up
world, even at an airport where fuel was readily
available, would that jet-fuel burn?
"Frank?" Gregory's voice was unsteady. "Frank? I think I
see something."
*
"I'll be a son of a bitch," Frank whispered. "Good eyes,
Gregory,"
The time-rip lay about two miles off their starboard side
and maybe half a mile below. Either it had drifted, or
the airplane had. Either way, there was no way to reach
it without circling back. Frank began a gradual turn to
his left.
The time-rip had maintained its lozenge-shape in this
reality but was very nearly the black hole postulated by
Solomon. It cycled with a dim purple-green light, visible
more peripherally than when viewed straight on. It was no
wonder they had missed it. The wide white ribbon of vapor
had been replaced by a shimmering, jet-black river of...
something... Jill could not tell what. Whatever it was,
as with the time-rip itself, the shimmering flow was
better seen from the corner of her eye. Then it was lost
from sight.
"Okay," Frank said. His face reflected a grim
determination. "We found it, now let's not lose it again.
Solomon, Elise, Gregory--go back into First Class and
watch out the windows. It should be visible off the port.
Keep me posted on its location. Jill, you keep an eye on
the gauges. The instant we hit four hundred pounds, you
sing out like a bird. Got it?"
"Yes," Jill said, happy for something useful to do, even
if she wasn't sure exactly what for. "What happens at
four hundred pounds?"
"We head back toward the rip," Frank told her. "No matter
where we are. Lined up or not. Any less fuel than that
and... "
Jill didn't have to be told the rest.
Locking her eyes on the readouts, Jill watched the digits
decline, silently counting off the pounds with numb lips.
The fuel was going alarmingly fast. At what she judged as
the halfway point of the turn, the readout had dropped by
half.
"Five hundred pounds," she warned.
"Shit!"
Frank increased the angle of bank and drew back on the
yoke. The G-force increased as the turning radius grew
tighter, and Jill felt herself try to climb upward out of
her seat. She wrapped her legs around the struts at the
bottom and maintained her downward count.
"Four hundred and fifty pounds," she said.
"Shit!" Frank growled again.
Behind them in the cabin, a second avalanche of luggage,
watches, handbags, wallets and loose change went
cascading across the isles and beneath the open-bottomed
seats to impact against the bulkheads. There was a load
crash, followed by the sound of breaking glass and Elise
shrieked loudly once and then let out an avalanche of her
own... of hot invective. Gregory erupted in explosive
laughter.
"Shut up!" Elise bawled, which only made Gregory laugh
harder. Then Elise began to laugh as well and Jill,
watching the numerals wind inextricably down toward the
four hundred mark, began to laugh herself. She saw in her
mind's eye a clear image of the young heiress attacked by
a homicidal drinks cart.
"Four hundred pounds, Frank."
Cursing vehemently under his breath, Frank brought the
767 back to level flight and centered the lozenge-shaped
time-rip on the aircraft's nose. It was perhaps twenty
miles off. He adjusted the throttles slightly, then sat
back in the seat. "Either we make it," he said, "or we
don't."
The aircraft approached not straight-on as Frank had
wanted, but at an angle that Jill estimated as around
thirty degrees. She wondered if entering at an angle made
a difference. If so, there was little they could do about
it now. The others joined her and Frank in the cockpit.
As they approached the river of... what?--Jill thought it
looked like foam breaking over a midnight-darkened beach
--she discovered it was flowing out of the hole, not into
it as had been the case in the future. She began to pick
up flashes of color traveling within it--anti-colors, her
mind insisted--mold-green, bruised-violet, rust-red. The
colors of death, she thought. And although it was hard to
tell for sure against the night sky, Jill suddenly
wondered if--
"It looks smaller," Elise said uncertainly.
Grimly, Gregory said, "It is."
Frank made a slight course correction. The tip-rip had
either drifted off to their left, or it was smaller--much
smaller--and closer than they had imagined. "Don't jump
to conclusions," he cautioned in a voice nonetheless
tight with worry. "It's hard to judge distances and size
at night."
Elise was unswayed. "It's not just smaller, Frank, it's
closing up." Her voice had shifted an octave mid-
sentence, making her sound like a preteen.
"Nonsense," Frank insisted, but his tone held little
conviction.
Solomon said quietly: "Elise is right. That thing has
shrunk to less than half its original size."
"More like a quarter," Elise put in.
Frank shook his head. "It's big enough. We'll get
through."
He made another course correction and the floor tilted
gently to the left as he banked toward the elusive,
shrinking slot in the sky. It seemed to slide off the
767's nose even as he banked toward it. Now they could
hear a sound mixing with the drone of the jet engines--a
deep-throated rumbling--like the breathing of a t-Rex in
one of the Jurassic Park movies. It made gooseflesh erupt
all over Jill's arms and torso. As they approached the
half-seen river of black, the plane encountered
turbulence.
"Hold onto something," Frank said. "This could be bad."
Jill belted herself into the co-pilot's harness while
Gregory sat Elise down in the jump seat and belted her
in. Then he braced himself in the cockpit doorway as
Solomon took the other seat. As the 767 entered the
narrow flow of vapor streaming out of the time-rip, it
slowed appreciably, as though Frank had extended the air
brakes. But Frank had done nothing.
"A head wind," Frank muttered, placing his right hand
atop the throttles. His eyes flicked momentarily down to
the fuel readouts, and Jill's eyes did the same. They had
less that two hundred pounds remaining. When she looked
back up, Frank's mouth was set in a thin, grim line.
"We'll make it, Frank," she said in a reassuring whisper.
Frank only grunted. Their airspeed continued to drop.
Suddenly, as though seized from behind by an immensely
powerful hand, the 767's airspeed dropped precipitously.
The aircraft staggered sideways and Gregory staggered
with it, ending up in Elise's lap. Looking both terrified
and ironically amused, Elise wrapped both her arms around
him and Gregory clutched her arms with his own.
"Christ on a pony," he muttered.
The rip lay dead ahead of the 767's nose now, but refused
to grow. Alarms were going off and the yoke before Jill
shook alarmingly.
We're not going in, she thought frantically. God help us,
we're not going in.
"Up, Frank! We have to go up!"
Frank pushed the throttles dead against the stops and
pulled back on the yoke even as she yelled the words. For
one long terrifying moment, the aircraft refused to
respond. Then, like a man extricating himself from ankle-
deep, life-sucking mud, the 767 struggled upward. It
climbed out of the black vapor and that sense of
tremendous power, of air rushing out of the hole like a
mighty river, marginally eased. Jill looked at the
instruments and saw the 767's airspeed was slowly
increasing again. The shaking of the controls had let up.
Although she knew little of flight aerodynamics, she
suspected they had come deadly close to a stall.
"Are we okay, Frank?"
Frank's snarled expression was all the answer she needed.
Looking again at the gauges--she had to force her eyes to
move down--she watched in horror as the green numerals,
now flashing in strident warning, ticked down below one
hundred pounds.
Please, she thought. Please let the numbers be wrong. Let
them be like the fuel gauge in my car; let there be some
fuel left in the tanks. Let there be a buffer!
But as the numerals wound their way down past the fifty
pound mark, half a dozen red indicators lit up across the
board. A klaxon loud enough to herald the end of the
world went off.
"What is it! What is it, Frank?" Elise wailed.
Frank calmly set about responding to the alarms. When he
settled the left throttle to its idle position at the
bottom of the track, Jill knew the worst. There was no
buffer. The left engine had quit. Now they really were
flying on fumes.
Rising from his seat and coming up behind Jill, Solomon
gripped both of her shoulders. Grateful for his touch,
Jill clasped her hands over his. Beneath the fingers of
her right hand she felt the smooth round shape of rosary
beads; clasping one, she silently began to pray.
The turbulence increased; Flight 74 became embroiled in a
deadly, choppy surf, a surfboard with wings, rocking and
twisting and thumping through the unsteady air. Frank's
hands clutched the yoke so hard his fingers left
indentations in the rubber coating. The 767 remaining
power plant strained valiantly against the buffeting
winds, as though aware that only seconds of fuel
remained.
At least there's ground to crash into here, Jill thought
wildly. We don't have to face that inky-black void of the
langoliers.
Being turned into human pate after a fall from 35,000
feet was still a better fate than that.
The turbulence increased until Frank was forced to raise
the nose in order to save the aircraft. It slammed up and
down and for one frightful moment rocked up almost to the
vertical on its starboard wing. From somewhere below came
another of those deadly shrieks of over-stressed metal
and then a second. Somehow, even though the fuel gauges
flashed a terminal zero-zero-zero across all tanks, the
starboard engine continued to turn.
"Go baby, go," Frank muttered over and over again. Jill
prayed hard on the beads of Solomon's rosary, her
whispered words matching Solomon's own. Behind her,
Gregory and Elise both recited the Lord's Prayer, even
though Gregory was Jewish.
The turbulence continued to increase as Frank lowered the
767's nose again and headed back into the vapor-stream.
Ahead of them, the hole continued to swell even as it
insisted on sliding off the nose. Frank fought the yoke
and cursed vehemently at the turbulence. After one
particularly vicious jolt, everyone aboard screamed,
Frank included.
"We're not going to make it!" Elise shrieked. "We're not
going to make it in!"
As though accepting her words as the penultimate truth,
the world-ending klaxon began yowling again and lights
sprang on across the board. The right engine failed.
Unable to remove either hand from the yoke, Frank could
only sit there and yell at the klaxon to shut up. It
continued to wail. The turbulence increased. Everyone
prepared to die.
"Grab the yoke!" Frank yelled. "Grab the yoke and help me
get it under control."
By now, the aircraft was pitching so badly that Jill had
to clutch the armrests to keep control of her arms. They
wanted to fly away in all directions. Grabbing the yoke
first with one hand and then with the other, she
struggled to keep her hands upon it. Never had she
experienced such a wildly bucking ride. How in the name
of God, she wondered, did the aircraft hold together.
Ahead of them, the time-rip was centered in the cockpit
windows again, spreading across the sky. It was lit from
inside by an awful array of colors that coiled, snaked,
and then streamed away into its aberrant depths. The
aircraft fell toward it, bucking, shaking and skidding
left and right.
"Will we make it?" Jill screamed.
"How the fuck should I know?"
Just as things seemed unable to get any worse, they did.
With the starboard engine's final winding down, the power
went out. The lights in the instrument clusters stuttered
and then died, plunging the cockpit into darkness.
"No!" Frank yelled. "Don't you dare! Don't you fucking
dare!"
Beneath her hands, Jill felt the yoke tighten up and
freeze. They no longer had control.
"Hold it!" Frank yelled, releasing the yoke with his
right hand and grabbing a lever between the two seats. He
yanked it violently up, then began vigorously pumping the
handle up and down.
"What is that?" Jill cried. The nose of the 767 was
falling off to starboard and the left wing was coming up
fast. They had only moments remaining.
"Ram jet!" Frank yelled. "It should have deployed on the
loss of power but it didn't. I'm lowering it manually
now!"
Jill felt a sudden movement in the controls and lights on
the panels flashed sporadically on and off. Then the
power stabilized, triggering a cacophony of alarms.
"Back!" Frank yelled. "Pull back on the yoke! We have to
raise the nose!"
Pulling with all her might--Solomon added his hands to
hers--Jill watched the dangerously off-center time-rip
continue to rise. For three or four seconds--an absolute
eternity--nothing happened, then slowly, agonizingly, the
aircraft began to respond. The nose came up and the left
wing depressed, and suddenly, miraculously, the time-rip
again headed toward the center of the windows. They would
not hit it dead center, but at least they had a chance.
The colors boiling in the rip were the antithesis of
everything God had ever intended. It was not a black
hole, Jill thought, but the back end of a black hole--its
relativity asshole.
Color drained from her cheeks and brow in a mad rush out
of existence. She looked left and was not surprised to
see that Frank Trafano's rigid, struggling form was also
depleted of color, his form and features overwhelmed by
the life-sucking hole. He had become a living ghost. They
all had become living ghosts.
Now the sound of passage was lost entirely in a new
sound; the 767 seemed to be rushing through a wind tunnel
filled with pummeling rocks. Suddenly, directly ahead of
the airliner's nose, a vast nova of blackness exploded
like a hellish firework; in it, Jill saw colors no man
had ever imagined. It did not just fill the time-rip; it
filled her mind, her nerves, her muscles, her very bones
in a gigantic, coruscating fireflash.
"MY GOD NO!" she screamed, covering her eyes with the
back of her hand. "HELP US! HELP US PLEASE!"
A split-second later the 767 plunged into the depths and
Jill suddenly was no longer one woman, but two,
overlapped in twin realities like some sort of ethereal
Siamese twins. For a hairs breath of time she had two
heads and two torsos, four arms and as many legs. Her
eyes opened in a reaction of unimaginable pain, then she
was gone, ripped wholesale from whatever existence the
dying jetliner found itself in. There was a final,
brilliant explosion of nothingness and that was all.
The five remaining passengers of Flight 74 had vanished.
Chapter 19
Monday, July 20, 2015,
7:54 A.M. PDT
On the banks of Lake George,
Sacramento, California
The sun had only begun to burn off the morning chill, and
the lake was practically deserted on this fine Monday
morning. Frank Trafano cast out his line, dropping the
lure close to the spot where moments before a flash of
silver had broken the surface. It was almost certainly
another spot–-Frank had seven of the palm-sized fish on
the stringer already. With luck, by the time he went home
that evening, he'd have enough to feed the crew.
The only sounds interrupting the lakeshore's quiet were
those of nature: the squawk of a circling crow, the
melodious cry of a songbird in the woods behind him, the
whisper of the July wind. Frank was grateful for these
sounds; they held none of the unwelcome reality which
technology brought to man-made noise. And in Frank
Trafano's opinion, noise was all man was capable of
making.
Other than a solitary fisherman in a jon-boat close to
the opposite shore, and a pair of love-birds in a canoe
drifting near the lake's center, the two hundred or so
acres of water were his. Frank gave the couple in the
canoe an occasional glance, trying not to let thoughts of
his own loneliness intrude on the day's otherwise perfect
balance. The last thing Frank needed on this day were
disturbing thoughts, especially if they lead his mind
back to Jill Cooney, which they invariably did.
It had been two years to the day since Frank and his
seven fellow passengers leapt from the sanity of the
normal world into the horror of non-existence. Scarcely a
night went by uninterrupted by troubled dreams; the past
month had been especially bad. Jessica Gibson--their
young and fragile savior--seemed to torture Frank the
most. Sometimes she appeared on the concrete apron of
that bizarre world, standing silently before the dead
concourse building. More often, however, it was inside
the murky interior of the snack bar, where Catherine
Montes had plunged six inches of metal into her chest. It
either case, Jessica was as Frank saw her last, lips and
chin slicked with rose-colored blood, a badly folded and
blood-soaked tablecloth strapped across her chest, her
breathing labored. It was her eyes, though, that were the
worst. Those dying, all-seeing eyes.
Frank was unaware of his thoughts until they were
interrupted by a tug on the line. Suddenly cognizant of
his surroundings, he looked at the red and white plastic
bob just in time to see in dip below the surface. He
snapped the line too late and missed setting the hook.
The fish was gone, and probably with it his bait. He
swore softly and reeled in the line. A moment later he
heard footsteps behind him.
"Hello, Frank."
Frank recognized the speaker's voice and turned slowly
around. In the twelve months since Frank had last seen
him, Solomon Howell had aged. His hair was a mixture of
salt and pepper, and new lines had etched his face. He
seemed shorter than Frank remembered. Frank got up and
grabbed the man's hand.
"Solomon! Why didn't you call! I could have picked you up
at the airport."
Solomon's dark eyes almost teared. A moment later the two
men were hugging ferociously and when Solomon spoke, his
voice was close to breaking.
"I didn't want to interrupt your fishing, Frank. I knew
you'd be out here catching our dinner."
"Nonsense," Frank said with amusement. "You just wasted a
ton of good dollars."
A maroon Ford Taurus--certainly a rental--stood vigil in
the parking lot above.
Looking slowly around the lake, Solomon asked, "Heard
from the others?"
"Gregory and Elise, yes. Jill... " Trafano shrugged.
Obviously he had no more idea of her whereabouts than did
anyone else.
"Jill will find us," Solomon said. "When and if she needs
us."
Frank nodded. "You could probably use something to eat. I
have crackers and some beer in the cooler."
Solomon looked at the water's edge, where a stringer-full
of palm-size spot lay submerged next to a red & white
Igloo cooler. He grinned. "Have a head on them I hope?
You know how I hate beer without a head."
A smile tugged at the corners of Frank's mouth, then took
over his entire face. The two men broke into laughter,
horse laughs from deep down in their bellies, fighting
away tears, eventually having to hold onto each other for
support. Out on the lake, the heads of the two young
lovers turned to watch the men with expressions of not
quite alarm, not quite disdain.
*
Frank opened the door of the rental car, climbed out, and
stretched his limbs mightily. Before him, the grungy
facade of the apartment building rose four stories into
the air. He looked at the grimy windows, the stoop in
disrepair–-one railing canted crazily off to the side
while the other was missing entirely–-and then up and
down the block. What a depressing place to live, he
thought.
Solomon smiled in agreement. But it was all the young
lovers could afford.
"Elise turned eighteen last month," Solomon said. "You
knew that?"
Frank nodded. "We spoke briefly over the phone. I sent
her a birthday card with a small check inside. Nothing
extravagant, you know. Enough to treat them to a good
dinner or a couple of movies." They approached the front
entrance of the building. "They probably put it toward
the rent."
Upon their return to Los Angeles and the normal world,
the five survivors of Flight 74 were besieged. The
authorities first, and then by the press. Then the
general public.
For a month Frank and the others had found themselves at
the center of a whirlwind. What had happened to the
aircraft everyone wanted to know? What happened to
Catherine Montes? The little girl with the powder blue
top? The dozens of others?
Four aircraft altogether had flown through the
"atmospheric disturbance" over the Mojave desert before
air traffic control got wise. The first aircraft, a US
Airways 737 bound for Cleveland, Ohio, had nine
passengers exit the flight. None had returned. A second
aircraft, American Airlines Flight 1210 en route to JFK
had gone through next, with twelve passengers deserting
their seats. Ditto no returns. Next came American Pride
Flight 29, another 767, bound for Logan Airport in Boston
from which eleven passengers, including a little blind
girl, a junior attache at the British Embassy in
Washington, DC, and a scoundrel name Craig Toomey who
purportedly had embezzled fifty million dollars from the
Desert Sun Bank had gone missing. American Airlines
Flight 74 went through last.
The only survivors of this man-eating hole in space, the
five returnee's had endured everything from public
ridicule to Congressional hearings, to threats of a
public lynching. Their explanations were brushed aside
out-of-hand while numerous other hypothesis, no less
crazy than the truth--brilliantly masterminded and
executed hijackings, military experiments gone awry, and
alien abductions--abounded. And just as in the case of
UFO's, neither the media, the scientific community nor
the authorities were willing to consider--much less
accept--a non-natural explanation.
As the two men approached the entrance to the building,
Frank Trafano slowed, then came to a stop. He stared in
disbelief at the slight, chestnut-haired woman standing
inside the building's front lobby. Smiling hesitantly,
the young woman raised her hand and waved.
"You all right?" Solomon whispered to Frank.
Frank nodded. His throat was suddenly dry. "I'm fine," he
said. "Let's go inside."
Together, the two men climbed the front steps and joined
the woman in the lobby.
She looks exhausted, Frank thought, and indeed Jill did.
Dark smudges stood out below both eyes and her pallor was
nearly the white of Solomon's shirt. Her hair was lank
and un-styled and despite this--or possibly because of
it--Frank found it hard not to stare at Jill's face. That
familiar old crunch gripped his stomach and he looked
away.
"Hello, Jill," Solomon said. His voice was surprisingly
level. He extended his hands in greeting. "I guess I
shouldn't be surprised."
Jill smiled again briefly, then gave Solomon a hug, then
hugged Frank. She stepped quickly away. "They don't know
I'm coming," she said, indicating the mailbox with the
last names of Gregory and Elise taped upon it in Dymo
tape. "I wasn't even sure they'd be here."
Solomon gave an understanding nod. "I spoke with Gregory
just before leaving Frank's," he said. "He hoped that
you'd make it. So did we."
Because of the investigation and the continuing public
scrutiny, Gregory was unable to attend USC/Berkeley
during the fall or winter semesters. His parents had
offered surprisingly little support, considering the
circumstances. And where it came to Elise Gallo, rich
heiress or not, they were openly hostile. The situation
came to a head the month before, when Elise turned
eighteen and the two had moved in together. Gregory no
longer talked to his parents.
"We should go up," Solomon said.
They climbed the narrow steps single file, having to
climb over a Big Wheel parked on the second floor
landing. The stairway smelled of ethnic cooking and an
underlying odor of urine.
Solomon helped support the couple himself, offering a
small monthly stipend to help offset the cost of
Gregory's tuition, and to help pay the rent. Even so,
Gregory and Elise were forced to seek off campus housing.
Elise worked full-time, but at a minimum wage job doing
cosmetic's makeovers. Her legal problems from the
computer-hacking incident were never-ending and because
she'd see no money until her twenty-first birthday, her
family had to foot the bill. Like Gregory, she was
presently estranged from her parents.
They stopped before the door to apartment 4-B. Solomon
raised a hand and knocked gently on the wood.
A rattle came from the other side of the door–the sound
of a chain being drawn--then of the dead-bolt flipping
back. The door cracked open and Elise look out. "Hi," she
said, opening the door and standing back. "Come in."
Jill entered first, trying not to stare at the couple's
decrepit belongings. Frank went next and Solomon followed
him through the small foyer and into the living room
where Jill stood with her feet together and her hands
clasped on her purse. Elise shut and locked the door. She
did not set the chain.
"Hi," Elise said again.
She had gained some weight, Frank noted, but still looked
like a poster child for anorexia nervosa. But her color
was good and she fought not to grin childishly at their
presence. Clad in cut off jeans, a tank top and white
sandals, she looked ready for the beach.
"All together again, aren't we?"
The others smiled.
"Greg?" Solomon asked.
"Went to get some Italian dressing. We ran out."
From the slightness of her waist and thighs, Frank
guessed she ate a lot of salads. If anything at all.
"He's on his bike," she said, " so he shouldn't be long.
Why don't you sit down."
Frank chose the ratty old recliner, while Solomon and
Jill sat down on the ratty couch. Everything in the
apartment was ratty. But it was clean, Jill saw,
spotless, in fact. Polished hardwood flooring bordered
the perimeter of the room and the threadbare carpet
showed recent signs of being vacuuming. The rattiness was
further offset by half a dozen vigorously growing potted
plants.
"Sorry about the place," Elise said. "It's all we could
afford." She shrugged. "Better than a shelter, I guess."
Or jail, Jill thought.
Solomon said: "No apologies are needed and none will be
accepted. You and Gregory have done quite well for
yourselves and its a roof over your head."
Elise turned pink. "Right," she muttered.
"The important thing is that you're happy. Nothing other
than that matters."
Elise smiled while Jill looked unhappily at her shoes,
then out one of the yellow curtained windows.
They chatted for a time, avoiding anything of importance,
the conversation staying clear of the reunion's purpose.
After ten minutes, footsteps sounded on the hallway
outside and a key was inserted into the lock. Elise rose
and met Gregory coming in. They kissed quickly while the
others watched in varying amounts of embarrassment and
pleasure. Then they entered the living room.
"Hello, everyone," Gregory said.
The others got up and all five formed together as a
group, embracing tightly with their arms locked around
each other's shoulders. They finally broke apart,
standing back and looking abashed.
"This is so embarrassing," Gregory said. Tears stained
his cheeks and he wiped them clean with the back of his
hand. "I'm so glad to see you all. I can't tell you how
much."
"Gregory, believe me," said Solomon. "We believe you."
Gregory's hair was long and beginning to curl around his
ears; light fuzz covered his cheeks and chin. He had
noticeably lost weight but his posture was good and his
eyes shown with joy.
"You all look so good," he told them. "And it's so good
to have our family together again."
Yes, Jill thought sadly. If only it were complete.
*
On the east-bound flight to Washington D.C., Jill had
awoken to confusion.
"Are you all right?" a woman asked. There was fear in her
voice, anger as well. Then: "What is going on!"
Unsure if she were still dreaming, Jill looked up
expecting the scowling face of Catherine Montes above
her. It wasn't. The woman was the same overweight Latina
that had sat across from her on the aisle. She looked
quickly up and down the plane, both relieved and alarmed
to see so many staring, fright-filled faces. She
unbuckled her seat belt and stood up.
"What time is it?" she asked.
The woman blinked, nonplused.
"Never mind," Jill said, pushing brusquely past her. She
headed forward up the aisle.
Scanning the faces of the other fliers, she was endlessly
glad to see Frank Trafano battling his way down the aisle
through First Class. His face was a sign board of relief,
consternation and fear. His clothing--Jill's as well--was
covered with blood.
From twenty feet away, irritably brushing aside a red-
faced and thoroughly distraught flight attendant, he
yelled: "The others?"
Jill spun around, looking in all directions. Trying to
remember their placement throughout the aircraft, she
recalled that Tanya and Catherine had come from the
front, Gregory had been with her and the other four had
all come from the rear.
"Catherine?" she asked.
Frank shook his head. His mouth, already drawn in a grim
frown, drew grimmer. No Tanya either, it said.
Feeling a rising panic, Jill fought her way up the
crowded, noisy aisle. They met halfway.
"Jill--" Frank started.
"Where is she?"
"Not here. Maybe in the back. She did come through first,
remember?"
Looking through the shouting, gesticulating crowd into
First Class, Jill refused to accept this. "Are you sure?"
she demanded.
"I'm sorry," Frank said. He pushed her before him down
the aisle. "Come on. We need to find the rest."
The rest, as it turned out, were as equally anxious to
find them. Laboring their way up both aisles from the
rear compartment, Gregory and Elise on one side, Solomon
on the other, the three remaining survivors of Flight 74
joined Frank and Jill in the middle of the plane.
"Tanya?" Jill desperately pleaded. "Have you seen Tanya?"
The others shook their heads.
"Where is she?"
No one had an answer for that.
*
"This is the best fish I've ever eaten," Gregory said. "I
can't remember the last time anything tasted so good."
Jill took a sip of her Earnest and Julio Gallo white wine
and concurred. "To Frank for catching it," she said, "and
to Elise for learning to cook."
The whole group laughed.
On the occasion of their first reunion--the press had by
then mostly lost interest in the five and were leaving
them alone--the duties were done by Solomon and herself.
Jill had prepared the favorite dish of her mother--smoked
Salmon--while Solomon prepared everything else. They had
dined together in the dining room of Solomon's modest
house in L.A.
"My pleasure," Elise said, blushing prettily.
Gregory cleared his throat. "We have something to tell
you," he said, also beginning to blush.
"Greg!" Elise canted her head. Her look was both
threatening and pleased.
"We, uh... we're going to get married."
Following their initial shock, Solomon and Frank both
thumped Gregory on the back, while Jill leaned over and
hugged Elise tightly. Drawing away, she saw in Elise's
eyes that there was something more.
Elise slowly smiled. "February the fifteenth," she said,
eliciting a huge grin from her future husband--and the
baby's father.
"Well, congratulations!"
"That's great!"
"Do you know what it is, yet? No! Don't tell me!"
They all laughed again.
In coming to grips with the loss of Tanya Raum, Jill had
at first shut everyone out, then slowly, incrementally,
learned to accept it. Because, as postulated by Solomon,
Tanya was not really gone, but lost amidst all the
myriad, other possible time-steps. She might even now,
Jill thought, be sharing wine with another, more
fortunate Jill Cooney. At least she could hope.
And she had made a decision.
"Frank?" she asked softly.
"Yes?"
"Is that offer of Prince Edward's Island still open?"
Frank looked momentarily nonplused, then struck dumb.
"Yes," he said in a faltering voice. "If you want."
Slowly and with great caution, she slid her hand off the
table and took Frank's hand in her own. She clasped it
tightly. "I think I'd like that," she said.
Blushing until even the shiny pate of his head was red,
Frank grinned.
*
Three months after their plunge back into reality,
Solomon had visited Jill at her home in Bethesda,
Maryland. By then, the worst of the shock had gone, but
Jill still refused to meet with the others. She wouldn't
even entertain the notion that life could return to
normal.
Bullying himself through the door, Solomon spent the rest
of the day, that night, and the following day pulling her
back into the reality shared by the others. She had
finally broken down, crying and fretful, and had
listened.
"Listen," Solomon said, taking hold of her listless
hands. They sat opposite one another on the living room
floor. "Remember what I said in the concourse restaurant?
About timeframes having a definitive span of time?"
"Yes."
"Well, I think there's more to it than that. I think they
also have a multitude of moments." He took a deep breath,
before pressing on. "I've spent a lot of sleepless nights
thinking this out. I imagine our own timeframe to be like
a single frame of film, amongst thousands of others. Only
instead of running end to end, like a normal roll of
film... " He placed the palm of one hand atop the back of
the other in demonstration. "... they lay atop one
another, making up one continuous, if not contiguous span
of time."
Jill thought she understood. "So space-time is actually
made up of these thin bites of reality, stretched all the
way from one end of eternity to the other."
"Yes," Solomon agreed. "That's basically right. What I
also believe is that each timeframe is made up of what
could be described as quantum moments... discreet packets
of time. What physicists use to describe the transference
of light and other forms of electromagnetic energy
throughout the subatomic world. Everything on the
infinitely small scale--and theoretically the large--is
controlled this way."
"So when we work our way through the allotted number of
quantum moments in our own timeframe," Jill said, "the
timeframe is used up?"
"And we move on to the next. It's nature's quantum
clock."
Jill smiled ironically. "What an absolute load of
bullshit."
After Solomon had stopped laughing, he went on. "When we
slipped through to the next timeframe ahead of everyone
else, we triggered that timeframe's quantum clock. That's
why everything began to slowly change. But there was only
our life force to cause a reaction, I think, which, is
like dropping a few drops of water into the desert sand.
Inconsequential. Reality coming across wholesale, I'm
sure, triggers an instantaneous transition. Anyway,
because we had triggered things ahead of time, the
timeframe was yanked and set upon by the langoliers. How
we managed to exit it again, I haven't figured out. The
hole should have been closed. Perhaps that's why it was
so much smaller on the opposite side. Perhaps it was
divine intervention, I don't know. What I do know, is
that somehow we did pass through and ended up back in our
own timeframe."
"What about Tanya?" Jill asked softly. Both knew this
therapy session was really about her. All the scientific
expostulation in the world, without some explanation of
what had happened to Tanya Raum, would not benefit Jill.
Solomon looked at her sadly. "What happened, I believe,
is this. When Tanya preceded us back, she reentered at
the exact same instant she had left . . or rather, on the
next tick of the quantum clock. I don't believe, if my
grasp on quantum physics is right, that anything else is
possible. But because Tanya went through fifteen or so
minutes prior to our arrival, she in effect proceeded
into the future without us.
"I know, I know," he said, heading off her objections.
"It doesn't sound right. We should have joined her in the
same instant when we slipped back through. But that's not
how it works. Each tick is a separate layer of time, a
subdivision, let's say. We exist in every subdivision
simultaneously, past, present and future, and together,
they make up the whole of existence. Tanya, I'm afraid,
moved farther forward into the future with each tick of
the quantum clock. Or perhaps, if it's easier to
understand, we fell behind her. Either way," he said,
shrugging, "It's not something we can do anything about.
We have to live with it."
And live with it Jill had, for another six months. Then,
one fine April evening, Frank showed up on her doorstep
and invited himself in... and then invited Jill out to
dinner. She had accepted--reluctantly--and surprisingly
to both, the dinner turned out a success. Not smashing,
but better than either had expected.
Three months later, on the advent of their first reunion,
the other three members of the group learned of their
blossoming affair. Three months after that, Frank asked
Jill to marry him, going so far as to promise they could
live as close or as far from the others as she pleased...
Prince Edward Island in Nova Scotia, for all he cared.
Jill had asked for time to think it over... and had
disappeared the very next day. Today was the first time
anyone had heard from or seen her in nine months.
Gregory lifted his glass. "A toast," he said, "to our
missing companions."
All raised their glasses and clinked them softly
together. They each took a sip.
"And to the others who went through before and behind
us," Solomon said, "and never came back. We commend their
souls to God."
To which Jill added: "Including Catherine Montes who,
despite everything that happened on the other side,
certainly didn't deserve the end she got."
They clinked their glasses again.
"And to us," said Elise, who wisely chose to let the wine
touch her lips but not enter her mouth, "the five
shooting stars of Flight 74, back for all time."
Then all of them but Elise, who would in the very near
future increase their number by two, threw back their
heads and made the toast to friendship complete and
legally binding.
The End
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 23