Things Fall Down

by Keith Taylor

“Can you see where you’re going?” Jack asked, peering through the window at the blur beyond.

  The pilot let out a dry chuckle. “Nope, I can see squat.” He flipped a switch. The wipers stopped moving altogether, and immediately the windshield was completely obscured, “And now I can see the square root of squat.” He noticed Jack’s confused expression. “You can’t take off with the wipers running, son. They’d just tear off the window. Don’t worry, it won’t be a problem in a minute.”

  The wind was fierce now, buffeting the small plane on the choppy water. The pilot flipped a few switches on the console, checked his gauges, and with a deep breath he reached for the throttle, whispering something quietly.

  Jack’s eyes grew wide with fear when he realized it was a prayer. “Is everything OK?” he asked in a trembling voice, unsure if he wanted an answer.

  The pilot gave him a nervous half smile and shook his head. “No, not really. You should, umm... you should probably hang on to something.” He looked down at Jack’s hands resting in his lap. “Seriously, I’m not kidding. This could get rough. You really should hang on.”

  Jack braced himself against the cockpit frame as the pilot pushed forward on the throttle. The engine coughed once, then once more. For a moment it seemed as if it might explode in a shower of tortured steel, but then something seemed to catch and the propeller became a blur, then began to rotate so quickly it seemed to vanish entirely. The Otter began to surge forward on its pontoons out onto the lake, and Jack was pressed uncomfortably back into a seat that felt like it was made entirely of exposed springs.

  It only took a few seconds before Jack realized the pilot hadn’t been kidding about the rough going. At a standstill the chop kicked up by the storm had looked like soft wavelets lapping across the water, but as the Otter picked up speed the small waves suddenly seemed to harden into rock. As they left the pier behind the plane began to pitch back and forth, turning Jack’s stomach with each wallow, and then the Otter reached running speed, and the pain began.

  The pontoons slammed into the waves, bouncing from peak to peak. Each impact sent a jarring shock up Jack’s spine. Beside him the pilot held onto the juddering yoke for dear life, struggling with all his strength to keep the plane moving in a straight line. Behind him the dog had splayed herself out on the bags, head down and eyes wide.

  The pilot turned to him and yelled over the roar of the engine. “Push that throttle lever all the way forward!”

  “What?” Jack could barely hear him over the deafening noise.

  “The throttle! I can’t let go of the yoke! Push it all the way forward!”

  Jack reached out for the red lever in the middle of the dash, terrified of touching the wrong thing and killing them both. “This one?” Now he could barely hear his own voice.

  The pilot nodded, his arms straining against the controls. “Yeah! All the way forward, now!”

  Jack struggled to get a grip on the throttle. The vibration of the plane was trying to shake his eyes from their sockets. He was getting double vision, and it took a couple of attempts to grab a lever that seemed to be in two places at once. Eventually he managed to get a grip on it, and bracing himself against the back of his chair he pushed it forward until he felt firm resistance.

  Immediately the tone of the engine rose to a shrieking whine, and somehow the already unbearable shock of the impacts against the chop doubled. He wasn’t sure he could stand this much longer. The vibrations were so intense he could barely take a breath, and with each jarring crash against the waves he felt the air forced from his lungs. The plane felt like it was shaking itself apart, and so did his body.

  “Is this— Jesus! Is this normal?” he yelled, his voice ululating with the bouncing impacts on the water.

  The pilot fixed his eyes straight ahead, his expression set in fear and concentration. “Does it feel normal to you?” With a guttural roar he pulled back on the yoke with all his strength. “Get up! Get the hell up, you God damn son of a bitch!”

  The pontoons lifted from the waves, then crashed down once more, and then an instant later the pain was suddenly over. The plane skipped off the peak of the final wave and into the air.

  Jack’s stomach flipped as he felt himself pressed hard into the seat back. It felt like they were climbing almost vertically. He could see nothing but dark clouds ahead, the rain driving straight into the windshield as the plane climbed to meet them halfway, and then the pilot leaned into a lazy turn, still climbing.

  The plane was still bouncing around like a punch bag being pummeled from all sides, but compared to the terror of a moment ago Jack felt like he was swinging peacefully back and forth in a hammock. At least now he could take a breath. It didn’t even bother him when the pilot suddenly leveled off, sending Jack bouncing out of his chair until his head met the ceiling with a bang.

  “Oh, thank God for that,” the pilot sighed, sweat beading on his brow as he slumped over the yoke.

  Out the window the city finally drifted into view, dark and brooding under the heavy clouds. The low rise industrial sprawl around the airfield was just as empty as it had been when Jack had passed through. Beyond that the ink black water of Lake Washington stretched out for miles, and as the plane banked the Lacey Murrow Bridge appeared ahead of them, the broad twin span cutting through the water towards Mercer island and the distant shore.

  This was the route to the eastbound Interstate, the quickest route inland from the city, and in the gloomy overcast the bridge stood out against the darkness like a string of Christmas lights. Every one of the dozen or more lanes was packed bumper to bumper with traffic. The plane banked again, and now Jack could see the same sight repeated everywhere across the city. All the major roads leading out of downtown were gridlocked. The traffic didn’t seem to be moving at all.

  “Well, I guess it’s good I didn’t send you off to find a car,” the pilot said, staring down at the city below. “There must be half a million folks stuck down there.”

  Jack reached out to touch the side window, just to remind himself that he was really there. He was really in the air, not trapped down on the ground with the rest of them. “Thank you,” he said, turning back to the pilot. “I really mean it, you saved my life.”

  The pilot let out a quiet chuckle as he pulled on the yoke, sending the plane up to a few thousand feet. “You might want to save those thanks for later. This old bird hasn’t been in the air for years. She’s a restoration project, and the Lord only knows if she’ll stay up.” He noticed Jack’s stricken expression and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ve been flying thirty years and I haven’t died once. I’ll keep her in the sky.” He took his hand from the yoke for the first time since they’d left the pier. “Warren Styles.”

  Jack took his hand. “Jack Archer. Glad to meet you.”

  Warren nodded. “I guess the feeling’s mutual. I don’t think we’d have made it up without your help.” He grinned, nodding towards the back of the plane. “Boomer can’t work the throttle.”

  At the sound of her name the dog picked her way through the bags and poked her head between the seats, and Warren reached back to scratch her behind the ears. “It’s OK, girl, it’s over now.” The dog whimpered and leaned into the scratch, panting. “Poor thing hates flying. I don’t expect that takeoff helped matters.”

  Jack reached out and let Boomer sniff his hand, and a moment later she climbed onto his lap and tried to curl up. She was far too big to fit comfortably, but with a couple of turns she managed to squeeze herself tight enough to stay in place when Jack stretched out his legs.

  “You OK with dogs?” Warren asked. “I can shoo her off if you like.”

  Jack took her soft, floppy ear between his fingers and gently kneaded it, smiling. “No, I’m good.” He laid back in his seat, cradling the dog to keep her from slipping from his lap.

  “You got one of your own?”

  “A dog? No.” Jack shook his head. “Not since I was a kid, anyway. We always planned to get one but we neve
r quite got around to it. And then… well, you know how it is, life gets in the way.”

  An unwanted memory came rushing back to him, and the pain in his shoulder suddenly flared up. Damn. He’d forgotten all about it these last couple of hours. He reached into his jacket pocket to make sure his last miniature of vodka had made it through the takeoff intact, and he sighed with relief when he felt its comforting shape. He didn’t need to drink it now. He just needed to know it would be there when the time came.

  Warren flipped a couple of switches and turned the plane a few degrees south. “So… You said you’re headed to San Francisco? That’s home?”

  Jack thought about the question for a moment. “It used to be. I guess not so much these days. The job keeps me on the road most of the time, so I don’t get back as often as I’d like.”

  “Yeah, I know that feeling. What’s your business?”

  “I’m a pharmaceutical rep.” He noticed Warren’s blank look. “I visit hospitals, private practice doctors, retirement homes, that sort of thing, and try to get them to buy our medicine.”

  Warren’s brow knitted with confusion. “They have people just to sell medicine? I thought it was… I don’t know, I guess I didn’t think there was much selling involved. I mean, medicine’s medicine, isn’t it? You get sick, the doctor gives you the right drugs. That’s that, right?”

  Jack felt his temper fray as the stabbing pain in his shoulder grew sharper. “It’s a little more complicated than that, Warren.” He could tell as soon as he’d spoken that he’d snapped. He hadn’t meant anything by it, but the pain was doing the talking.

  Warren fell silent for a moment, clearly confused as to why Jack had seemed to take offense. Finally he muttered, “Well, what do I know? A job’s a job, I guess.” He changed tack. “Anyway… I can’t get you all the way to San Francisco, but I can put you pretty close. I’m headed to Ashland, Oregon. Little place just a few miles from the California border, right on Interstate 5. Once we set down you can find yourself a car. It’s a straight shot south on the five from there. Should get you home in about four hours, so long as the roads are clear.”

  “That’d be perfect.” Jack forced a smile. “Thank you. Do you live in Ashland?”

  Warren shook his head. “Me? Nah, I’m in Seattle most of the year. My son lives down there, though. Teaches at Southern Oregon University. I just figured it’ll be safer than the cities, know what I mean? Three hundred miles from anywhere with a pulse. Nobody’s attacking Ashland, and if things get bad we can just head east into the woods. Lots of good hunting out there.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” Jack agreed. “I wish I could join you.” He gazed out the window and saw they’d left the city behind. Now they were over Seattle’s vast suburban sprawl, and ahead the houses gave way to a patchwork of farms and forests. From this height the world below looked deserted.

  Warren fell silent for a moment, staring out at the clouds ahead. “So…” he finally said, “San Francisco. You know the news said it’d probably be the big cities that get… you know.”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah, I know. It’s OK, my ex-wife has my daughter. She knows how to take care of herself. I got a message that they’re headed to her cousin’s farm out near Modesto. It’s about eighty miles inland. Should be far enough to be safe if the city gets hit, at least at first.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the screen. No new messages, and zero bars. “I guess we’ll take it from there. One step at a time, right?”

  Warren nodded. “One step at a time seems like a smart way to do things.” He glanced at his watch. “And on that note, it’ll be about three hours before we set down. I’d suggest you try to catch yourself a little shut eye because, and I don’t mean to be rude, you smell like you got dragged through a brewery backwards, and you look like you were dragged on your face.”

  Jack was about to protest, but he knew Warren was right. He was a mess. He’d been drinking since the moment he’d pulled himself out of bed. He was damned lucky he hadn’t crashed the cab on the drive to the airfield, and even now the headache from last night was still hanging around the edge of his brain.

  “Wake me when we’re close, OK?” He slid awkwardly down in his seat, pulling Boomer around so he could cradle her like a baby, and he looked back at his phone. He tapped Karen’s last message and read it again.

  He wondered where she and Emily were right now. Surely they’d be out of the city by now. The message was almost an hour old. With a little luck they’d already be halfway to Modesto.

  He focused on the final two words of the message. Love you. Had she typed that out of habit, he wondered, or…?

  He didn’t want to think about it too much. There was nothing more painful than false hope, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen. It had been almost a year since he’d heard those words, or even seen them written down, but he realized something as he looked at the message. The pain in his shoulder began to melt away. The stab faded to a prick, and then a tickle, and then almost nothing at all.

  He was still staring at the words as he drifted off to a peaceful sleep.

  ΅

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DAYS OF THUNDER

  KAREN STARED GUILTILY at the blinking red light beside the lens of the security camera mounted high on the concrete wall, trying with all her might to move with the body language of meek contrition and apology. She smiled awkwardly at the camera, shrugging her shoulders in a way she could see was absurd even as she did it.

  She could already imagine the footage being played at her trial. She could picture the jurors, a dozen upstanding citizens who’d never received so much as a parking ticket, tutting and shaking their heads as they watched the grainy footage of this woman standing at the valet desk of an underground long term parking lot, dressed in stolen scrubs and levering open a key cabinet with the stamped flat end of a steel pole. Just the thought of it knocked her sick. What she was doing now made her a criminal. She’d never so much as stolen a pack of gum.

  “Emily, come here, pumpkin.” She felt silly even as she called out. She tried to convince herself she just wanted her daughter close, but she knew the real reason. She wanted Emily in the shot. She wanted to be able to point to her innocent little seven year old girl and tell the jurors that she was just trying to keep her safe. That’s why I stole the car, your honor. I had to protect my baby!

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to do that?” Ramos asked, watching Karen struggle to pry open the cabinet.

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to sound like one of those people, Doc, but if the owner ever tries to press charges it’s probably better for us if they come after me rather than… you know…”

  “The beaner? The wetback?” Ramos snorted with derision, taking the pole from Karen’s hands. “Come on. I’m fifty two years old and I’m the head of radiology at a respected hospital. I’m wearing a damned lab coat. Nobody’s gonna mistake me for a gangbanger.”

  He slipped the flat end of the pole through the gap in the door, braced his foot against the wall and leaned back. The flimsy lock broke almost right away. “And besides,” he said, handing Karen the pole, “necessity is a valid legal defense. We’re not going to jail for stealing a car when a nuke might be on the way.”

  Karen blushed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just… well, you know how it is.” She reached into the cabinet and grabbed a random key from its hook. “OK, start looking for bay 32C.”

  Ramos held up his hands. “Whoa whoa whoa, now let’s just think about this for a second.” He took the key from Karen and read the plastic label zip tied to the fob. It read 2015 Chevy Malibu followed by the plate number. He laughed and tossed the key back into the cabinet. “If we have to do something wrong…” he ran a finger along the rows of keys, finally picking one from the bottom left corner, “let’s do it right.”

  From his hand dangled a shiny, bright red key fob that looked like it had been designed in a wind tunnel. Even the key looked
fast. He pushed a button, and twenty yards from the valet desk the headlights of a torch red Corvette ZR1 flashed twice as the doors unlocked. “Now that’s a car worth stealing.”

  Karen took Emily’s hand and followed Ramos as he reverently approached the car, and she couldn’t help but laugh when the doctor reached it and turned back to her, beaming like a schoolboy.

  “Whoa, this is cool.” Emily cooed, staring in awe at the enormous spoiler rising from the sleek body. “Mom, this is so much cooler than our car.”

  Ramos smiled. “Yeah.” He almost looked like he had tears in his eyes. “Yeah, it is.”

  “And I bet it’s a lot faster,” Emily suggested.

  “Yeah,” Ramos repeated, the childlike grin plastered to his face. “Yeah, it is.”

  Karen bent down and cupped her hands against the tinted driver’s side window. She cleared her throat. “Umm, Doc? Yeah, there are only two seats in this thing. Could you maybe go back and pick something a little more practical? Maybe somewhere in the parking lot there’s a car that can seat three?”

  Ramos tried to squeeze past her to reach the door. “Nah, don’t worry about it. We need to get out of the city fast, right? Emily can just sit on your lap.”

  Karen flashed him a humorless smile and blocked his way, plucking the keys from his hand before he could protest. “I’ve got a better idea, Days of Thunder. Emily can sit in your lap.” She stared him down until he got the message that she wasn’t kidding. “Go on, you know how to find the passenger door.”

  Ramos looked crestfallen. “Seriously, I don’t get to drive?”

  “You don’t even own a car, Doc. I don’t want you behind the wheel.”

  Ramos reluctantly moved around to the passenger door, muttering under his breath. “At least I didn’t crash my car today.” He pulled it open and lowered himself awkwardly into the seat. “Well, come on Emily, I guess you’re riding shotgun with me.”

  Emily clambered in and squeezed herself into a space at the edge of the seat. Ramos shuffled aside, grumbling about the tight squeeze. “Your mom’s a real hard ass, you know?”