by Chris Pike
God, her ears hurt. She tugged on her ears and wiggled her jaw in an attempt to clear them – a trick she learned from long hours in a commercial plane. One of her ears cleared, and her hearing improved.
She shivered at the unnerving silence.
She had landed behind a concrete pillar that supported the concrete passageway to the dressing rooms. A news reporter Lexi recognized from TV lay crumpled feet from her, a piece of rebar sticking out from her chest. Security guards rushed past Lexi, not even giving her a second glance, sidestepping bodies as they navigated towards the field.
Lexi lifted her head toward the field. Her eyes went wide. She had no time to react or to think. Instinct took over and she curled into a fetal position, covering her head.
A fireball roaring like an out of control locomotive barreled down upon her like a living, breathing beast.
What happened next was the stuff of horror movies.
Chapter 3
Ethan Crossfield worked hard to rid his mind of the time he had to eject from the fighter jet during his tour in Afghanistan. He was lucky to have landed in friendly territory, otherwise, he wouldn’t have the honor and privilege of being part of the Blue Angels.
Flying at 700 mph just below Mach 1 in an F/A 18E Super Hornet streaking across the clear February sky, he willed himself to forget the ill-fated flight. Yet the hollow, sick feeling in the gut of his stomach reminded him. He shook off his nerves and concentrated on the exact timing needed to pull off the acrobatic maneuver he and three other pilots needed for a successful show prior to the Super Bowl kickoff.
It was the 75th Anniversary of the Navy’s elite Blue Angels, requiring a new aircraft which replaced the F/A Hornet the Blues had used for over thirty years.
Viewing NRG Stadium from a height of 8,000 feet, home to the Houston Texans football team, a rush of adrenaline tamed his jitters. From his vantage point, the stadium, filled to capacity at 72,000 seats, was as small as a Monopoly game board.
Ethan and the other pilots had practiced for hours in the flight simulator before moving to the wide open sky where no room was allowed for errors, a sneeze, a cough, or any distraction during their tight formation. He had flown this particular formation so many times he could practically complete it blindfolded.
The choreographed maneuver required the expertise of many professionals who understood the mechanics of flying and the various weather exponents that could affect the jet’s ability to maneuver.
Ethan couldn’t have asked for better flying conditions. Visibility was at a maximum, winds were light and out of the north, and he couldn’t wait to get the show on the road. It was perfect timing to showcase his skills, and he savored each moment. After this, he’d hang up his wings. At forty-two, the other pilots jokingly called him Grandpa due to his age. Flying these jets was a young man’s job.
Almost ready.
Preparing to take the lead in the Diamond 360 maneuver, Ethan would soon give the verbal go-ahead signaling the start of the show.
He visually checked the other pilots, confirming their positions, spoke into his headset for a second confirmation, then noted the time. He descended and slowed the aircraft. The other aircraft followed.
5:23 p.m., Central Daylight Time.
In sixty seconds, the Blue Angels would streak back over NRG Stadium, showcasing their skills, then he’d be on his way home where he’d pop a can of beer and watch the halftime show plus the second half of the game.
As they had practiced, each jet descended according to plan.
Coming in from the south of the stadium, they flew over the woodland area of the Brazoria National Wildlife Refuge where alligators slithered in the swampy water.
Earlier in the day, they had traversed across the high plains of Texas, across the Edwards Aquifer, the Hill Country, then to the coastal wetlands near the Gulf of Mexico where they refueled at a local air base.
To the east was the Houston Ship Channel and the city of Pasadena, commonly called Stink-a-dena by the locals due to the rotten egg odor – a sulfur byproduct from numerous petroleum refineries.
The jets crossed the Sam Houston Tollway.
They skirted Hobby Airport.
Moments to go.
The stadium came into view over the horizon.
The jets descended to the safest altitude allowable, streaking over what was now south Houston – not exactly prime real estate with problems of increasing gangs and crime. It was a place where Ethan had grown up, playing in the streets, getting beat up on a regular basis. A place he had escaped. A young boy with a shock of light hair and freckles made for a good target by bullies.
“Everyone good to go?” Ethan asked. He got a verbal confirmation from each pilot.
Ethan gave the thumbs-up sign.
Breaking formation, he felt a hiccup from the finely tuned jet engine that normally purred like a newborn kitten. The jet wobbled.
One of the Hornets shot past him, and in its wake, the jet shuddered its last moments of mechanical life.
The dashboard with numerous readings about altitude, wind speed, and a hundred other things blinked then went dark.
Think!
His peripheral vision caught sight of one of his men ejecting and being thrust into the atmosphere at a mind-numbing speed.
“Holy Mother of God,” Ethan uttered.
He whipped his head around, frantically searching for the other jets. One was on a dangerous trajectory straight towards NRG Stadium. The others were nowhere in sight.
Suddenly, the calming vibrations of his Hornet he had been accustomed to abruptly stopped, with only the forward momentum of his jet keeping it aloft.
In the next second, he calculated how long he could keep the Hornet in the air. He searched for possible places to crash land.
By now he was in the middle of the metropolitan Houston area, and the only place to crash land was the 610 Loop. Even on a Sunday afternoon, it was clogged with traffic, and if he tried a crash landing, the loss of life would be significant.
His jet was dead in the air, and he’d be too if he didn’t act soon.
He had to eject.
The last thing Ethan saw was NRG Stadium and the surreal image of thousands of cars parked on the stadium lot.
The last thought he had was regret he wouldn’t know who won the Super Bowl.
“Damn,” he whispered. He had a bet with his brother about who would win.
A millisecond later, a bone-breaking explosion captured his entire being.
He didn’t even have enough consciousness left to think this was how he would die.
Ethan’s body went limp, and he succumbed to the blackness surrounding him.
Chapter 4
“Excuse me. Sorry,” Rebecca Smith said. She smiled pleasantly at the people already seated at NRG, who had their knees together and to the side, providing room for her to pass. She awkwardly squeezed past them, holding a drink in one hand, a bag of popcorn in the other while trying to avoid giving the person in the row below a jolt with her derriere.
“Sorry,” she said again, using her best southern charm. She inched down the aisle, planting a fake smile on her face. Someone in the row in front of her stood suddenly, bumped her, sending a cascade of Becca’s salty popcorn on a woman who acted like she had come in contact with a lethal dose of arsenic.
Kinsey, Rebecca’s sixteen-year-old daughter who was following behind her, gasped and turned a bright red rose petal shade of embarrassment at her mother’s clumsiness. “Mom!” she whispered through. “Be careful.” Kinsey lowered her chin, looked left and right, afraid she might see someone she recognized.
Rebecca’s fifteen-year-old son Tyler purposely stepped on Kinsey’s heel. Her shoe came off her foot, she tripped, and nearly spilled her drink. She twisted around and glared at her brother.
“I’m sooo sorry, Kinsey. It was an accident,” Tyler said, raising his voice and putting the emphasis on his sister’s name, in case one of her friends was seated nearby. He got
a kick from knowing exactly which buttons to push on his sister.
“Right,” Kinsey said with a big helping of sarcasm. She stuck her finger between her heel and back of the shoe, wiggling it back on.
Rebecca, known as Becca to her friends, was nearing her breaking point and close to exploding into a mother’s wrath. Her children had been bickering all day, and what should have been a day to honor her deceased husband had developed into a migraine. She really needed a strong hot cup of coffee, not the sugary drink she ordered. Her kids had whined about watching the game with their mother instead of their friends, and Becca was considering sending them home in a cab.
Finally reaching their seats, Becca took the middle one to put a buffer between her children who were acting like two-year-olds. Kinsey reached across Becca to grab a chocolate bar from her brother, and in the tug of war the chocolate bar broke in two, sending broken pieces of chocolate on her lap. As Becca was about to scold them for the umpteenth time, she took a big breath and came to the conclusion bickering was a sign of normalcy. After her husband had died, Tyler and Kinsey rarely spoke at all, walking around like zombies and tiptoeing around the house, afraid to upset their mother.
Unless the bickering became personal, she’d let them work it out themselves.
Becca calmly brushed the chocolate off her lap, ate a big bite of popcorn, and washed it down with a gulp of soda. “Let’s try to enjoy the game,” she said. “Your dad would have wanted us to.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” said Kinsey.
“Me too.” Holding the chocolate bar in his hand, Tyler reached over his mom. “Kins, you can have the other half.”
“Thanks,” Kinsey said. It had been a long time since Tyler had called her Kins, a nickname that had stuck ever since they were kids. Tyler wasn’t able to say her full name when he was a toddler, so instead called her Kins.
Brother and sister exchanged glances of regret at their churlish behavior.
Becca swallowed hard, lowered her chin, blinking away tears forming in her eyes.
Tyler noticed the change in his mom. “It’ll be okay,” he said. He put an arm over his mom’s shoulder. “I know you miss Dad. We all do. You still have me and Kins.”
“I know,” Becca said, sniffling. “And I’m very thankful I have you both. It’s hard without your dad being here.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue then took a big breath to compose herself. “I’ll be back in a moment. I need to use the restroom.”
“Do you need me to come with you?” Kinsey asked.
“No. I’m okay. Stay here with your brother. I’ll be back before the National Anthem starts. I certainly don’t want to miss it or the kickoff.”
Rising from her seat, Becca apologized again when she shuffled down the aisle. Next time the Super Bowl came to Houston, she’d be sure to get seats near the end of the row. Not that there’d be a next time because football wasn’t her thing. She watched games on TV because it was what her husband used to do. He lived for the Sunday afternoon games, Sunday night, Monday night, and Thursday games. He loved the game, the players, coaches, announcers, and probably the cheerleaders. He’d yell and scream at his teams, jumping up and down when they ran a stupid play or got intercepted. Or when someone sprinted the whole length of the field to make a touchdown. A slight smile crept across Becca’s face at the comforting memory.
Becca walked up the ramp leading to the promenade, weaved through the crowd, and stopped at the entrance to the restroom. Her shoulders shrank at the long line snaking out to the entrance, and she briefly thought about returning to her seat when the line moved. She decided to wait it out. If she had time, she’d get a coffee.
Once inside, Becca waited her turn while America the Beautiful could be heard over the PA system. She didn’t have much time until the National Anthem began. She fidgeted, pulled her cell phone from her pocket, glanced at the time and checked to see if she had received anymore emails. Since she had none, she clicked on “messages” to read the texts her husband had sent her before he died. Reading them she could hear his voice and envision his facial expressions. A door to a stall popped open, and Becca was thrust back to reality. She clicked the cell phone off and placed it in her pocket.
After she finished, she washed her hands. Flinging off the excess water, she put her hands under the automatic towel dispenser. The lights flickered.
The darkness of the room was unnerving, and she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. The PA system piping in the music faltered, and different voices registered their bad luck at using the bathroom at the exact time the lights went out.
Becca slid her cell phone from her back pocket and tried swiping up from the bottom bezel to get access to the flashlight icon. Nothing happened. She pressed the home button, expecting it to light up. Nothing happened. Strange, she mused. She had it charged to one hundred percent power before she left the house.
Others in the restroom grumbled about their cell phones not working. Perhaps they were in a dead zone, or beneath too much concrete, although the location would only prevent a signal, not affect the power.
Ambient light illuminated the white walls of the entrance to the restroom so Becca moved toward the opening, anxious to get back to her children. The coffee could wait. Once she was back at her seat, she’d ask her children to test their phones.
The lights flickered again, and this time stayed on.
Her cell phone powered back up.
Becca fell in behind a group of people who were choking the entrance to the ramp. The announcer came over the PA system asking for everyone to stand for the National Anthem. Deciding it would be rude to push through the crowd while it was being sung, Becca decided to wait until it was over. She could always watch it later since she had recorded the game at home – a practice she had gotten into because her husband enjoyed watching it again especially if the team he rooted for won.
Once the song ended, the crowd inched forward, and—
A thunderous explosion rocked the stadium, and Becca automatically put her hand on the back of the person in front of her. She briefly wondered what could have caused it, until the realization came to her the explosion occurred at the same time the Blue Angels were to make an appearance.
She forced herself not to panic. She had to stay calm for her children’s sake.
Moments later a tidal wave of pressure blasted through the opening leading to the stands, channeled to a lethal force from the enclosed concrete walls.
The throng of people Becca was capsulized in hurled backwards, falling and tossed around as easily as dominoes. Dazed, and unsure how long she had been unconscious, she woke to pressure on her chest and a caught the whiff of a hairy armpit. Using all her strength, she pushed a man off her, allowing her to take a breath of air. Lifting her head up, she struggled to make sense of the angry orange mass barreling down upon them. It glowed with orange and red tentacles reaching out, slapping the air. She had a second to comprehend the wall of searing red was a fireball and it was almost upon her.
She instinctively covered her head and rolled into a little ball, taking refuge among the people laying on top.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, and dared not to take a breath of the hot air that had the capacity to burn her lungs and melt her skin.
The rush of the fireball rolled over the tangled bodies, and in its wake, set clothes and hair on fire.
Becca held her breath until her lungs felt like they were about to burst. Hesitantly she took a breath of the oxygen-starved air, and unable to fill her lungs, she gasped another breath, except her lungs did not fill with oxygen.
She gasped again.
Nothing.
Her chest rose, but no oxygen was available, only nitrogen and a trace of argon.
She violently gasped, her mouth wide open. The fireball had consumed all the oxygen in the narrow corridor.
She had no strength to move, as no oxygen was flowing through her body, and her brain was too oxygen starved to panic or to register she had
possibly taken her last breath.
She didn’t hurt, or have any regrets of what she should have done or said to her loved ones.
God, she was tired.
So tired.
She became lightheaded, her body sluggish and heavy. Instinctively the muscles in her chest willed her to take another breath, and she made the motions of breathing like a fish gasping for air on a boat deck.
Her eyesight became foggy. Hazy images of things she couldn’t comprehend. Her brain registered the last images and sounds of her environment. Tangled, warm bodies trapping her; the smell of burnt organic and chemical matter permeated her nostrils; frightened screams of the wounded claimed the silence; the feeling of helplessness, and a blackness so dark it scared her.
So this was what death was like.
Cold and lonely.
She shuddered.
Then a warmness washed over her, starting from her toes, creeping up along her legs, her torso, arms, and she welcomed the unusual feeling.
Images of her children came to her, laughing and playing in the yard. The sun shone above; birds sang; a calming breeze brushed her long, sandy locks. She stood in her home, her husband embracing her lovingly with his strong arms while the memories of her life played like a slideshow in her mind.
Slowly, the slideshow waned, becoming distant until she could see it no more, like an ancient vacuum-tubed television powering down where the picture closed in on itself from the edges until only a tiny black circle remained in the middle.
Becca wasn’t afraid, rather she welcomed the relief of her agonizing ending, trapped in a tangled mass of bodies.
Her last conscious thought was about her children and husband.
This was it.
Becca thought she smiled, or had tried to.
Then there was nothing.
Chapter 5
Ethan Crossfield woke to a comforting breeze on his cheeks, the sun warming him as he strolled along a tropical beach, warm sand under his toes, a cold drink in his hand, an island girl next to him, and—
