Diffusion Box Set

by Stan C. Smith

  Quentin said, “Whose idea was it to let the students out on their own, anyway?”

  Lindsey wiped her smile away, not acknowledging humor in this. “You really don’t want to go there right now.”

  A thud-click broke their thoughts as the pilot slammed and secured the passenger door. The pilot clambered into the cockpit. Both engines started. He revved them up, and the entire plane bucked. An open doorway separated the cockpit from the cabin, exposing the pilot’s right side and most of the instrument panel. On the instrument panel was a worn piece of masking tape with a series of marks on it. In what must have been a safety check, the pilot pointed to the instruments one at a time and moved his finger to the next mark on the tape, as if he might lose track of the process. The pilot looked over his shoulder like he was pulling out of a supermarket parking lot, and the plane surged forward onto the airstrip.

  In no time, they were rising toward the mountains enclosing the Wamena Valley. Quentin noticed that Miranda was apparently praying. Her cropped blonde hair allowed Quentin to see that her eyes were closed and lips were moving. It was the first inclination toward religion he had seen in any of the students—peculiar, considering they’d been together for over a week. The others watched through the windows as the tin roofs of Wamena gave way to scattered, thatch-roofed huts surrounded by neatly-divided sweet potato gardens.

  As they flew north to the peaks of the Maoke Mountains, Lindsey pointed out the road gradually being built from Wamena to Jayapura. Forging a road through hundreds of miles of mountainous and lowland swampy rainforest was beyond Quentin’s comprehension. He wished they would give it up, as it seemed like a vicious assault on this remarkable wilderness.

  Huts and gardens thinned out and then disappeared entirely, leaving only rainforest and mountaintops to the horizon. Quentin gazed at the expanse. He and Lindsey had traveled here four times but had experienced only the highland area around Wamena. The vast forest below was a different world, dark and mysterious. Other than the atrocious road being constructed, it had changed very little since Alfred Wallace, the first naturalist to set foot in New Guinea in the 1850s, spent several months to the north and published a fascinating account of his adventures.

  Wallace’s time had been a grand age of discovery, but in all his wisdom, Wallace clearly had not considered the long-term impacts of his contact with the indigenous people. And like Wallace, Quentin’s own parents had neglected to appreciate the fact that when people of vastly different cultures met, diffusion of customs and values was inescapable, and they were forever changed. And such changes were not always good.

  Twenty minutes later, as the mountains gave way to lowland rainforest, the only breaks in the scene below were occasional glimpses of the brown water of winding rivers. Of the students, only Bobby still seemed spellbound by the passing forest, his face glued to the window.

  Quentin unbuckled and stood in the narrow aisle facing the three younger boys. “I’m sure you guys have a great story to tell about your morning and why Mrs. Darnell was upset.”

  Addison didn’t even look up from the screen on his smartphone.

  Bobby glanced at Quentin and returned his gaze to the window. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Well, I want the full story tonight. That’ll give you guys a chance to get it straight.”

  They all smiled at this, even Addison.

  As Quentin turned back to his seat, a prickly wave suddenly swept through his body. He nearly toppled over. He reached out to right himself, but his hand found nothing. He looked around and could see nothing. There was only a gray vastness. It was peaceful and demanded no explanation. After an indeterminable time, the gray expanse gave way, returning him to the harsh cabin light. He realized he was gripping his chest with one hand.

  A voice came from the side, “Great, what’s wrong now?”

  Quentin looked at the voice. Addison tapped his smartphone, irritated at something that didn’t work. Lindsey’s eyes were pinched closed, as if coping with a migraine. As Quentin’s equilibrium returned, he watched until she opened her eyes. She seemed as confused as he was.

  One of the older boys said, “What the hell was that?”

  Bobby’s voice screeched, “Mr. Darnell, something’s wrong! Look at the engine!”

  Quentin leaned over Bobby and pressed against the window. The left engine was mounted on the wing above their heads. Oil streamed from its housing, making a horizontal trail in the air, dashing the wing strut. The oil suddenly caught fire. Flames sputtered wildly in the slipstream. Quentin stared at it for a moment and then turned to the others. The Indonesian couple at the rear of the cabin caught Quentin’s attention. They embraced each other as if they were frightened, and he could not see their faces. His eyes were drawn to the man’s dark hands, gripping the woman’s clean, white shirt. Briefly he thought how strangely beautiful this was.

  “Quentin?” It was Lindsey. The students were silent, waiting.

  “It’s on fire,” he whispered, too quietly for anyone to hear. The plane suddenly pitched left. He caught himself on the seat and looked out the window. The engine had shut down, the windmilling propeller creating enough drag to throw the plane into a turn.

  “Hey, man, you all right?” It was Russ, shouting to the pilot in front of him. Then he turned to face them. “There’s something wrong with him!”

  Quentin scrambled to the cockpit doorway. What he saw there made him freeze. The pilot’s back arched, pressing his shoulders against the seat. His legs kicked wildly. Gasping for air, the pilot’s breaths came in sickening whines: “HEE, HEE, HEE…” He was trying to remove the headset, but his hands flailed, scratching his face and eyes instead.

  With the controls neglected, the plane continued pulling to the left.

  Quentin pushed into the cockpit and kneeled by the pilot. “What’s wrong? What can I do?” The pilot’s arm thrashed out and struck Quentin viciously in the face. Reeling from the pain, Quentin grasped his mouth and then looked at his hand. It was red with blood.

  “HEE, HEE, HEE…” The pilot’s breathing became even more frantic, and his eyes bulged from his drenched face.

  Quentin grabbed the pilot’s wrists and held them to the man’s chest. He leaned over him, looking into his face. “Listen to me! One of the engines—it’s on fire.”

  The pilot’s eyes showed no understanding, only raw pain. “HEE, HEE, HUH, HUH…” His breathing changed from a whine to a gasp and seemed to slow down. His legs and arms stopped flailing and Quentin was able to release him.

  “HUH, HUH… HUH…” His breathing softened and then was drowned out by the remaining engine. Suddenly his body arched backward, as if every muscle were straining for air.

  Quentin watched the body contract again and again, a gurgle spewing from the man’s throat at the peak of each contraction. Finally, the pilot’s torso toppled out of the seat, jamming Quentin’s legs against the copilot seat. The man’s legs struck the control wheel and the plane pitched violently to the side. Quentin tried lifting the pilot, but there wasn’t room. That’s when he saw the man’s feet. His shoes had split apart and pink flesh protruded grotesquely from the rips, as if his feet had exploded.

  Quentin pulled his eyes away from this bizarre sight and yelled, “Russ, help me!”

  Russ grabbed the pilot’s armpit, and together they hoisted the man back into his seat. Outside the cockpit window, the ground was getting closer. They were losing altitude.

  “Russ, go back to your seat. Everyone buckle in!” Quentin watched to make sure they responded and then turned back to the now motionless pilot. He gripped the man’s head. “Hey, wake up!” The pilot’s eyes stared vacuously. Quentin grasped the man’s neck for a pulse, but felt only thick, clammy tissue.

  “Quentin, we have to do something!” Lindsey cried.

  The fear in her voice slapped him in the face. He looked desperately around the cabin. The two girls huddled together, Miranda’s head buried in her hands. Bobby stared out the window at the dea
d engine, as if willing it to life. In the rear, the Indonesian couple still clung to each other. Quentin pushed his way toward the couple.

  “We’re going to crash! Can you fly this plane?”

  The woman remained motionless, her face buried in the man’s shoulder, and again Quentin glimpsed dark fingers against her white shirt. The man shouted something in Indonesian, his face creased with terror. He couldn’t have been older than twenty.

  Quentin turned away from them. “Goddammit!” He made his way back to the cockpit. The forest was much closer, the treetops now a blur of motion. He grabbed the control wheel opposite the pilot and yanked on it, but nothing happened. He leaned over the pilot, grabbed the main wheel, and turned it. The plane responded, banking to the left. Quentin had never flown a plane, but he’d seen pilots in movies pull the wheel up for lift. He pulled hard and the plane’s nose pitched upward. He looked out. The trees were not rising as fast, but the plane was still losing altitude. He released the control wheel, and the plane began dropping faster, so he grabbed it and pulled again. It would not stay in place without his hands on it.

  Seconds later, the forest canopy was just below them. Quentin saw individual leaves as trees rushed by. The brown surface of a river appeared and then was gone. They were going to crash. He would die. His students and son would die. His wife. Quentin looked back at Lindsey and their eyes met. He released the control wheel and staggered back to her.

  “Hurry!” she cried.

  He fumbled with the buckle and snapped it into place. Lindsey had been reaching over the seat in front of her, comforting the girls, but now she put her arms around Quentin.

  He pressed her head into his shoulder and braced himself for the impact.

  The tree kangaroo, known locally as the mbolop, made its way up the trunk of a towering klinki pine. The top of the forest often revealed the greatest diversity of living things, and each tree variety seemed to hold its own combination of life thriving at its highest reaches. And so climbing was a good use of its time. The creature gathered information as if it were sustenance, feeding on it in order to live. And still there was so much to be consumed and stored.

  Claws pierced the klinki pine’s bark, allowing brawny hind legs to propel the creature upward. The tree’s limbs became thinner near the top, and the disturbance made them tremble. A raucous group of cockatoos, known to the tree kangaroo as kékékh, scolded the creature, their shrieks amplifying as it climbed nearer to them, until finally they blasted out of the canopy, a clamorous white cloud.

  As the kangaroo watched them fly upward, a prickly wave passed through its body. It stopped climbing. It discerned immediately what was happening, what the man Samuel had done—a heedless action with unpredictable consequences. But such experimentation was not unprecedented in this place. It was to be expected.

  Just as the wave of sensation passed, the flock of cockatoos fell silent. And then they rained down upon the tree they had just vacated. Ruined bodies splattered against the limbs, forcing the mbolop to shut its eyes against the spray of fluids and fragments.

  Eyes still closed, the tree kangaroo processed these events. Suppositions and observed facts shifted about on a cognitive puzzle board until they fit together like interlocking pieces. The puzzle was then undone and reassembled, searching for the clearest overall picture.

  But the creature’s thoughts were again disrupted, this time by a distant sound, a mechanical growl steadily drawing nearer. The mbolop scrambled higher until it could see over the other trees. It spotted the source, a machine hurtling closer and closer, just above the forest canopy. Muscles twitching, the creature prepared to flee. With a deafening roar, the machine passed directly over, close enough that the kangaroo had to tighten its grip to avoid being blown out of the tree by the air wake.

  The mbolop turned around in time to see the machine crash into the treetops.

  Quentin had lived a mild life. He had lost a fight when he was a teenager, but adrenaline had prevented him from feeling the pain. He had been in minor car accidents, with no injuries. And he had fallen from a ladder once, cracking his wrist. Never had he experienced anything like the crushing violence of the plane hurtling into the canopy. In a deafening uproar of twisting metal and bursting seams, he was wrenched from Lindsey’s embrace. His seatbelt clamped down on his hips, forcing his head to slam the seatback in front of him. Abruptly, the plane skimmed off the tree canopy, and for a moment, there was only the wind rushing through new openings in the cabin. Eleven people were on the plane, but there were no screams, no words—only the whisper of air.

  Chaos returned as the fuselage plowed into the canopy a second time. Quentin was thrown to the side this time and then jostled ruthlessly as if the plane were rolling. The fuselage shrieked as sheared tree branches tore into the metal. It then slowed and seemed to stop.

  Quentin blinked, but his vision was blurred. He grasped for anything solid and found the seatback in front of him, but it jiggled as if it had been torn loose. He recalled that he should not be alone. Others had been with him. Lindsey! He reached for her and found her arm, her shoulder, and then her hair. Suddenly there was a loud crack and the entire plane rolled to the side. This was followed by an even greater crack, as if an entire tree had been snapped in half. The plane fell. It crashed onto another tree branch and turned on end. For a moment it plunged tail-first like an elevator with a severed cable. The rear of the fuselage impacted an immovable force, throwing Quentin back into his seat and bringing the loosened seat in front of him into his lap. The plane then toppled over, and with one last jarring crash it came to rest. The fuselage groaned and then fell silent.

  Quentin’s senses began to function again. Shapes emerged from the haze. Spasms of pain, starting as mere tingles, intensified from his hips, his neck, and then from everywhere. His ears were the last to surrender. At first, there was only pulsing static, like breaking waves. Then there were voices. The voices intensified, turning nightmarish. They sounded guttural, like animals that were dying. His students and family were shrieking, gasping for air. He tried closing his eyes, but it didn’t stop.

  The pain in his hip became unbearable. He looked down and realized he was hanging from his seat. The plane was on its side. Lindsey was above him, her legs pressing against his. She was alive, conscious, pushing against Quentin’s thigh and the seatback in front of her. The cabin was dim now, but Quentin saw blood dripping from her face.

  “Lindsey!”

  She didn’t answer. Half her face was concealed by disheveled brown hair. The eye Quentin could see flicked his direction, but blinked confusedly. The students’ distressed cries seemed to swell. He had to do something.

  “Lindsey, my hip—I have to get out.” He pulled on his seatbelt latch and the mechanism popped. He dropped against the left side of the plane, hitting his head on the rim of a window. He pressed his hand where sunlight should have shone through Plexiglas. Instead there was moist soil.

  Quentin tried to clear his head, but the girls’ cries were persistent and frighteningly intense, making it hard to focus.

  “We crashed. Mr. Darnell, we crashed!” Bobby had been seated on the left side of the plane, so he was now against the ground in the seat next to Quentin.

  “I know, Bobby. Are you hurt?”

  “My head hurts.”

  Quentin popped Bobby’s seatbelt open, allowing him to sit up. Quentin then looked around him. Where a wall once isolated the baggage space at the rear of the cabin, there was now a huge opening. He saw slivers of sunlight against murky foliage. The Indonesian man, slouched in his seat, was silhouetted against the trees. The woman and her seat were gone.

  Addison hung limp next to Carlos, who was whimpering and clutching his own bloody hand. Quentin wanted to focus on his son, to make sure Addison was alive. But the girls’ cries couldn’t be ignored. He turned to them. He saw no movement in the front row beyond the girls, but Russ’s head hung loosely from his seat. The opening to the cockpit was now skewed to an
odd angle, and through it he saw only twisted wreckage and more forest.

  Quentin put his hands to his head. He wanted to fade away into oblivion. But Lindsey rasped above him, pulling him back. He rose from his knees and pressed his shoulder to her chest. “Put your arms around my neck.” Her nails dug into his back. He popped the lever on her seatbelt, and her full weight settled onto his shoulder. He collapsed and they both fell.

  “Are you okay? Is anything broken?”

  She blinked. “I don’t know. My head.” Blood flowed from a gash above her eye, and Quentin wiped it with his shirt.

  “Quentin, the kids.”

  “I know. You see to the girls. I need to get to Addison.”

  Lindsey staggered to her feet. Quentin turned to Carlos, who was sobbing and holding his hand. Quentin freed him from his seat and set him to the side so he could reach his son. He turned Addison so he could see his face. His face was even more pale than usual, and a red impact wound covered half his forehead. Quentin gripped his throat and felt a weak pulse. He lowered him to the floor, but was struck by Addison’s inertness. There was not a tight muscle in his body.

  “Oh God no!” Lindsey was now at the front of the plane. Quentin moved to her side.

  Miranda cried over and over, “My leg! Please! My leg!”

  But Lindsey’s attention was fixed on Russ and Roberto. The gap between their seats and the wall of the cockpit was gone. The wall had crushed Roberto’s legs. His head hung to the side at an impossible angle.

  Lindsey grabbed Quentin’s arm. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  There was no doubt of that. Quentin glanced back at Carlos, who was still cradling his hand but watching intently. Mercifully, he couldn’t see his older brother from where he sat. Quentin turned his attention to Russ. The cabin doorway had impacted Russ’s head, gashing his temple, exposing several inches of white skull. Quentin felt for a pulse, but found none. Roberto and Russ, both just graduated from high school, their futures full of promise, were dead.