The Experiment

by Holly Hart

  At last, the lights go down for good. I let my endorphin cloud float me to the end of the line, through the roar of the crowd, the press of backstage, the quiet of my dressing room. We were on tonight. In the groove. I could’ve gone another hour, maybe two. Maybe forever.

  Some kind soul’s left a bottle of San Pellegrino in the freezer, just long enough to get ice-cold and gloriously refreshing. I gulp it down to the dregs in about ten seconds, beads rattling on the glass as I wrestle with my headdress. Can’t stand that thing, with its tiers upon tiers of feathers and dangling baubles. It’s got to weigh more than my head.

  The gown hits the floor next—not loving that, either. I’m supposed to be a dark angel. Maybe a demon. I should be in cool, breathable black lace, not forty pounds of billowing white fluff.

  “You decent?”

  I spin on my heel. Wayne. “You’re looking right at me. What do you think?”

  He chuckles, looking on shamelessly as I shrug into my robe.

  “What is it? I was going to have a shower.”

  “Wanted to talk about the next three weeks.”

  My vacation. First one in three years. If the next words out of his mouth aren’t enjoy your freedom....

  “I’ve booked a couple of photoshoots—plus, Rolling Stone wants an interview. And we’ll hit up South by Southwest—you’ll be goin’ with Aidan, of course.”

  “You’ve—you....” No, no, no. None of that can happen! I’m supposed to be eating tacos, riding paddleboats, watching the world go by. Not chasing photo ops and doing interviews. “I did Rolling Stone barely two years ago. Not sure I’d have anything new to say.”

  “So you’ll talk about the new album. Your inspiration. Getting knocked out by your own wings, that time in Tokyo. Whatever. Adina’s in, too—first time for her. Wouldn’t want to let her down, would you?”

  I suppose not. But.... “South by Southwest’s out. I’ve got—”

  “What you got is three whole weeks to diddle yourself. One red carpet won’t kill you.” Wayne’s standing uncomfortably close, catching my eye in the mirror. He peels a hank of wet hair off my shoulder. “And do something about your roots. Devil queen ain’t blonde.”

  Surely the devil queen can be whatever the hell she wants.

  “So? We good?”

  It’s not worth arguing. Two photoshoots, an interview, and a festival—that’s four days, tops. There’ll still be time for tacos and paddleboats and sleep. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.” I lean my head on the mirror and close my eyes till I hear Wayne’s boots clopping away.

  Brandon

  The rot’s spreading.

  Last month, it was a bungled tax filing: millions of dollars in the loss column. Last week’s scheduling snafu only cost us an account—but it was a big one. And today... Well, today hasn’t cost anything yet. But alarm bells are ringing. That was the same guy, following me. Three cities in three weeks—what are the odds?

  I first clocked him in New York, sucking lime slices at the hotel bar. Then he was in London, catching a bus outside the Four Seasons. And that was definitely him back in Austin—same patchy stubble, same bright red hair—following me to the airport.

  Not much I can do about it at forty thousand feet. When we land in Toronto—

  Adam shouts. A sudden pain blasts through my temple. But it’s my gut that’s bleeding, and catastrophically. My lap’s full of gore—my shirt, my thighs—and someone’s yelling about seat belts.

  I’ve been...shot?

  Something wet and cold trickles down my wrist. Not blood. Tomato juice. I set my glass aside, laughing. “Hey, I seem to have—”

  There’s a loud clunk, and the wing dips and judders. The nose pitches down. We’re banking, in danger of rolling. I instinctively lean the other way, as if my weight could level the plane.

  “What’s going on?”

  The pilot doesn’t answer. Adam’s yelling over me. Sharon’s got her head down, fingers laced behind her neck. I lean into the aisle and try again. “Captain! What’s happening up there?”

  “Hydraulics are out! Having some trouble with the mechanical con—”

  The sound of tearing metal from the tail section drowns out the rest. I twist in my seat, but there’s nothing to see.

  “What was that?”

  “Stay in your seat, Mr. Shaw! We’ll be returning to the airport.”

  I snap my seat belt into place. The nose pitches up, and I can hear the engines straining, a high, whining sound. Plane this size should fly fine without hydraulics, but this doesn’t feel like a controlled descent. Up front, the pilot’s calling in a mayday.

  Adam kicks my seat. “Shaw, if your shitty plane kills us, I’m coming back to haunt you!”

  “We’re not going to die.”

  “Sure about that?”

  I open my mouth to swear we’re fine, and it feels like the plane hits a speedbump. My teeth rattle. The nose dips, and the pilot powers into the descent in a way that has my stomach floating. We’re corkscrewing toward the ground in diminishing circles, pulling hard right. Something’s sparking—I can’t smell smoke, but it’s only a matter of time. If we’re not on the ground by then....

  We’re not going to die.

  Except...we probably are. We’re rising and falling in a queasy, rolling motion that’s making me vaguely seasick. And we’re spiraling away from the city lights, away from any hope of rescue. At best, we’ll be coming down on an empty stretch of road.

  “Shaw, I swear to God....”

  “Keep...keep your head down!”

  I grind my teeth. We’re all on the same goddamn plane...which is wobbling and lurching, the entire fuselage rattling fit to fly apart. The vibration’s coming from everywhere at once. I clutch the armrests—or am I supposed to cradle my head? Been so long since I flew commercial, I can’t remember.

  The sharp stench of ammonia hits my nose: somebody’s pissed. This is how it ends? Plowing into the desert in a flying urinal? Covered in tomato juice? Being verbally abused? Adam’s still laying into me, and we’re practically flying sideways. I’m flat to the window, looking down at a whole lot of empty gray nothing. Couple more inches, we’ll flip, and it’ll all be over.

  There was a lot I wanted to do. Go deep-sea diving. Learn an instrument. Visit Scotland. Hell, visit anywhere, for the pleasure of it. Never went skiing; never saw where my parents grew up. Never fell in love. Never—

  “Hold tight, everyone! Gonna try something, here, ought to level us off!”

  I close my eyes. The plane rolls left. My belt buckle pinches hard. We swing back the other way, drop what feels like a hundred feet straight down, jounce and shudder, and this is it. We’re going down hard—diving, now. Over the thundering locomotive roar, I can hear Fuck you, Shaw—fuck you! Fuck you!

  “Fuck me....”

  I close my eyes, dizzy. Weightless. Think we’re pulling up again, but—

  “Brace positions!”

  This is it; this is it; this is—

  There’s a huge sound, tearing, screaming, metal-on-metal. My fillings twinge. We’re...breaking up? I glimpse early stars, gray earth, and the sky again—a red sliver of sunset. Something flies over my head, close enough to ruffle my hair. It shatters against the window. A shower of glass sprays my neck and shoulders.

  My glass from earlier. Should’ve—

  Choking—I’m choking!

  I cough, splutter, and wheeze in more dust. My eyes are streaming. I’m suffocating on dirt. Dirt and gravel. Sneezing and choking and gagging on it. Think I might’ve swallowed some: my throat’s dry as hell, full of sandpaper. And there’s something on my back. Something heavy, mashing my face in the dirt. Digging into my legs. I hump up my back, but it doesn’t budge.

  There’s a smell...burning rubber; something acrid and chemical. Roasting meat. It’s blowing in my face, along with a generous helping of ash. I retch and spit. Got to get out from under...under....

  The plane.

  So we crashed. And I’m
still strapped in. That’s all this is: a big leather chair, parked on my back. A problem I can solve.

  I fumble for my seat belt. It’s stuck, stuck fast, impossible to open with one arm pinned. I’m choking again. I tear wildly at the buckle, nails scrabbling on metal. By some miracle, the mechanism pops. The belt snaps back and I sag on my belly. It’s starting to hurt: my stomach, mostly. My right arm. The side of my face.

  Worry about that later.

  Even without leverage, it’s easy enough to throw off the seat when I’m not attached to it. I wobble to my knees, then my feet. Nothing feels broken. Nothing’s sticking out of me. Blood isn’t gushing from anywhere. We...survived?

  I pump both fists in the air, jubilant. “We survived!”

  Nobody answers.

  “Hey! Adam? Sharon?”

  Nobody—nothing.

  “Uh...Captain?”

  Dust blows up around my feet. There’s heat at my back, more oppressive than it ought to be, this time of night. Heat, and a roaring, crackling sound. Static from the radio, or—

  —fire; it’s fire.

  I turn around, squinting against the wind.

  “Oh—oh, no....” My hand flies to my mouth. There’s a tower of black smoke billowing forty, fifty feet into the air. Higher, maybe. I can’t see where it ends. At its base, almost too bright to look at, is the source of that melted rubber stink—a torn, unrecognizable thing. That’s the rest of the plane, that flaming hulk. I spin around, looking for more seats, more wreckage, Adam or Sharon, but only the twisted mini-fridge catches my eye. Everything else is scrap—metal crumpled like cloth, ruptured pillows, a bag of chips.

  I wipe my face and pull my fingers back tacky with blood. My arm’s stinging, too, scraped raw. That whole side of my jacket’s gone, and the shirt underneath. My pinky finger’s bent at a weird angle, nail split to the quick. I tug at it, and that hurts for real, sick shivers of agony racing up my arm to my throat.

  I drop to my knees and puke bright red. Horror explodes in my gut, and I scutter away from the mess. I’ve left a glistening fan of blood in the dirt, too much of myself—I’ve heard about this. Pain you don’t feel till it’s over, finished....

  A dismayed whimper rises in my throat. All that—a headlong hurtle through the clouds, a shattering impact, a faceful of dirt and ash—I survived all that, only to cough up my innards in the middle of nowhere? It doesn’t even hurt yet. My belly’s not bruised, apart from where the seat belt bit into my middle, but—

  Tomato juice.

  I was drinking tomato juice. That was how it started: a cold splash in my lap, my head smacking the window. Tomato juice. Of course. Everyone drinks that on planes. It’s the salt—tastes better in the air. Tangier, somehow—on the way down, at least. Didn’t need to experience that in reverse.

  I spit again and scrub at my mouth, wanting away from this. Away from the mess I’ve made. Away from that death-and-rubber smell. It’s turning my stomach, singeing my nostrils. Making my eyes water. And it’ll be dark soon. I can’t spend the night out here. Who knows if anyone’s looking, or where they’re looking?

  I scan the horizon. Civilization can’t be far. We’d barely hit cruising altitude, at the first sign of trouble. That’d put us... Hhell, I don’t know. I do a slow turn, searching for landmarks. It’s hillier than I thought Texas would be. Scrubbier, too. Never been out in ranch country before. I’d pictured something flatter—a great, featureless desert, maybe a cactus here and there.

  Past the plane, it’s nothing but earth and sky. To the south, a lone cow’s nibbling weeds. There’s a road sign due east, sticking up over the rise. I can see the shapes of letters gleaming in the moonlight, though I can’t make out words from here.

  I straighten what’s left of my jacket and start walking.

  Chapter Two

  Brandon

  “Dude! Shit! Did you come out of that plane?”

  “Plane?” I glance around, playing dumb. Don’t want to deal with that right now. I’m deep in an adrenaline trough, shaky and cold and bone-weary. All I want is quiet, and someplace to lay my head. “Look, I got carjacked, all right? Tried to fight back, and my jacket got caught in the door.”

  “Shit. You got dragged?”

  “Yeah.” I lean heavily against the truck. “Look, can I get in? I’m not going to rob you, or whatever. Just need to get back to... Where are you headed?”

  “Austin.” The guy pops the lock and I collapse into the passenger seat.

  “Thanks. You have no idea how much you’re saving my life right now.”

  “Unless I’m one of those...hill people. Cannibals, y’know?” He flashes me a tobacco-stained grin.

  “Very funny.” Or... I hope he’s being funny.

  “Eh. You wouldn’t taste good, anyway. Not without some serious fattening. All that muscle meat—eugh. Bitter.”

  My stomach roils again. This guy’s seriously creeping me out. I press my hand to my mouth and concentrate on keeping my guts where they belong.

  “Aw, sorry. Got kind of a weird sense of humor, sometimes. I’m Matt. And you’d be...?”

  “Brandon.”

  “So I guess you’ll be wanting me to drop you at the hospital? Or a clinic? How’s your insurance situation?”

  “Actually, uh... Could you take me to the Four Seasons? Think I’m more tired than hurt.” So tired. So tired.

  “You’re going to walk into the Four Seasons looking like that?” Matt regards me dubiously.

  “I stay there all the time.”

  “Yeah, but....” He tilts the rearview mirror my way. “Here.”

  It’s not a pretty picture. My face could be worse, but my arm’s one giant road rash. A scatter of nicks and scratches litters my neck and shoulder. My clothes are in tatters, to the point of indecency.

  “No shirt, no shoes, no service, man.”

  For the first time, I notice the rubber texture of the car mat under my feet. Damn it. I’m not wearing shoes, and only one sock. “Could I borrow yours? I’ll pay you. Uh...fifty for the shirt? A hundred for the shoes?”

  Matt cocks his head, considering. “I don’t know, man—a hundred’s a bit chintzy for these babies.” He shifts his leg so I can see his crappy old cowboy boot, all faded to hell. There’s a hole in the toe. “These were three hundred new—plus, you’d be getting them already broken in. Comfy as clouds. I think you could do...I don’t know...five hundred?”

  Five hundred!? “Three hundred, to cover a new pair.”

  “Four hundred.” He tips me a knowing wink. “It’s been ten years. There’s inflation.”

  Inflation. Unbelievable. “Fine. Fifty for the shirt, four hundred for the boots.” I fish out my wallet—miraculously unharmed—and peel off five hundreds. “Got change for a hundred?”

  “Nope.” He snatches the bills and makes them disappear. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “Yeah.” Dick. I lean my head against the window. Austin’s already gleaming in the distance. Soon, I’ll be showering off the stink of jet fuel and tomato juice, sinking into soft, clean sheets. Though, maybe I shouldn’t go to sleep right away. Not sure how hard I hit my head. Room service, then. Comfort food—a BLT, home fries, that spicy slaw they’ve got. Or was that somewhere else? Damn, but I’m hungry....

  I end up drifting off anyway, right there in Matt’s truck.

  “Mr. Shaw—you’re...back.” The clerk’s looking me up and down with ill-concealed disgust.

  “Yeah. Excuse the, uh....” I gesture at myself: the threadbare Snoopy shirt stretched tight over my shoulders; the patch of raw skin where my pants are hanging off my hip. “There was a carjacking incident. I... could I get my suite back? Couple more nights, at least?”

  She taps at her keyboard. “Ah, yep! Presidential suite’s still available, so I’ll just need to swipe your card one more time. Would you like to head on up, while I get you booked in?”

  “Yeah, no worries—I’ll get my stinky hobo self out of your lobby.” I offer up a lopsided
grin to show I’m not mad. “And if you’d arrange for a doctor, a nurse—someone to have a look at me? Tonight, if possible?”

  “Absolutely, sir.” She slides the keycard over the counter, careful not to let our hands touch. “Anything else I can get you?”

  “Not for now.”

  Back in my suite, I take stock of the damage. It’s worse than I thought; not as bad as it might’ve been. My knees are black and blue, and I’ve smacked my temple a good one. The outline of my seat belt’s imprinted across my middle. Two of my fingers are crushed, one definitely broken, and my left big toenail peels off with my sock. My throat feels like I swallowed jet fuel, let alone breathing the fumes. But everything important’s where it ought to be: no gashes, no gouges, no bones sticking out. I got off easy.

  Stepping into the shower is agony, as the hot water scours my cuts and scrapes—then exquisite relief, as aches I didn’t even know I had start to fade away. I let myself slide down the wall till I’m sprawled in the tub, head to the wall, watching dirt and blood spiral down the drain.

  We really crashed. Fell out of the sky. I ought to be dead, burned to a crisp with the rest of them. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m strapped to my seat, engulfed in flames, dreaming my dying dream. My sad, banal, thoroughly unimaginative dying dream.

  I scratch at a raw spot on my arm. It erupts in pain. Blood trickles down. Glass—there’s still glass in me. Swallowing nausea, I pick it out. Not a dream, then. Not a dream at all. Which means I have calls to make. Meetings to reschedule. And the plane—am I supposed to...report that? Talk to somebody?

  Maybe just soap, for now. Soap and shampoo. I tilt my head back and let water run into my mouth, cutting through the foul taste. This is fine: a few minutes to get clean and not think too much. Can’t remember the last time I didn’t have anything to do. Might as well make the most of it.